


The Bondlock Collection

by Jen (ConsultingWriters)



Series: Prompt Fills [3]
Category: James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Bondlock, Fluff, Humour, Johnlock - Freeform, Please see each fill, Pre-Slash, Prompt Fill, Q is a Holmes, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2017-12-10 19:35:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 142
Words: 64,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingWriters/pseuds/Jen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Due to popular demand: My tumblr fills, now moved onto AO3!</p><p>This collection pertains to all fills that focus on Bondlock. In practise, any Sherlock/James Bond crossovers - most involved Q as a Holmes, although some other pairings within the 'verses apply. Slash, pre-slash, et cetera. All safe for work, but please heed warnings as they pertain to each fill. More fills can be found through the rest of my 'Prompt Fill' series. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> http://consultingwriters.tumblr.com/ - This is the guilty tumblr. These fills are all mine (Jen) unless otherwise stated. Feel free to have a glance, and throw more prompts at me.
> 
> My longer prompt fills (ie, those which have multiple parts), NSFW prompts, Sherlock prompts, and 00Q prompts, can all be found in the rest of the series. I had to differenciate, or I'd lose track of what I'm doing!
> 
> Please see each fill for warnings. I have almost certainly forgotten to write in some warnings, in the melee. Please don't throw things at me, just remind me, and I'll pop them up.
> 
> Thank you kindly to everybody, especially those who have been supporting ConsultingWriters on tumblr, you guys are wonderful. Jen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bondlock prompt: After Sherlock's death, John wanted to move out but all his effort at hunting a new flat failed. Q appeared out of nowhere, introducing himself as Sherlock's brother and he wanted to share flat with John. John reluctantly agreed. Actually It was Q who pulled all John's hunting new flat plans off, he even pulled some trigger to get John a new job (Sherlock asked him to take care of John while he was away). Bond and Q were not a couple yet. Bond got jealous over John. - chibura

John’s feet were cold.

He hadn’t been warm in weeks, maybe months. Longer than he could remember, really. Time was a little bit irrelevant.

He hated Baker Street, and everything it stood for, without the person who it made it everything it was. He both hated and loved it. He loved seeing Sherlock’s violin, hated the stabbing pain of knowing nobody would ever play like him. The beautiful creation would gather dust, and fade away, like John’s memory of Sherlock.

He had at least managed to get to the point of leaving the flat from time to time. Infrequently, certainly, but every once in a while he was able to get milk, bread, shampoo. The things to live by.

He also got out to look at other flats. He seemed to be having appallingly bad luck with them, actually. The few that were viable he had been outbid on, or they had mysteriously vanished off the market for no apparent reason.

He couldn’t afford Baker Street on his own. He hated the place, yes, but more than that, could not _bear_ the thought of anybody other than Sherlock living there. Somebody who wouldn’t love Mrs Hudson, who would scoff at the nitrogen burns and singes on the sideboard, who would be socially acceptable, would actually _use_ the tube line situated only a few minutes away rather than taking cabs every time of day or night.

The doorbell rang.

John’s eyes were dead, hollow, and he knew it. Mrs Hudson was out. He couldn’t avoid the doorbell.

He walked down the stairs with a touch of langour. There was a sillouette outside the door, unsurprisingly. He straightened, fixed his expression in place, and pulled open the door. “Hello?” he asked, his voice steady and perfectly intact. He was a soldier; he was very good at concealing weaknesses.

The young man in the doorway had to be in about his mid-twenties, give or take three years. He smiled a smile that was painfully familiar, and held out a hand. “Hello. My name is Q Holmes.”

John froze very slightly. “Holmes?” he asked, not taking the hand. The man quirked a sideways smile.

“Yes. I’m the youngest Holmes brother,” the man told him lightly. “Sherlock was my senior by seven years.”

_Twenty-five then_ , John thought to himself, and let out a stung-out exhale. “Alright. Q. Stupid enough name, I’ll go with it. You weren’t at the funeral.”

“Yes I was,” Q replied quietly. “Just not where you could see. I didn’t know if you would want to see me. I am remarkably similar-looking to my brother, although temperamentally different, of course.”

John was finding it a little tricky to breathe. “Alright,” he managed. “So what are you doing here now?”

Q’s smile was perfectly painted. “I am very sorry to ask, but I am in need of a flatshare. I can assure you that if you survived Sherlock, I will seem tame by comparison. You will need a flatshare yourself, Mycroft can’t fund you forever, your pride won’t allow it.”

“I’m glad Mycroft is his usual, restrained self when it comes to other people’s business,” John said crossly. “Well, it won’t hurt you having a look.”

“Excellent, my bags will be along this afternoon,” Q smirked; in a movement that flashed him back nearly two and a half years, Q slipped past him, and up the stairs to what was apparently now _his_ flat.

-

Q settled with a mug of tea, and smiled. He was in Q-branch, monitoring his bugs around 221B, his new flat; Doctor John Watson, a lovely man with evidently crippling depression, was ambling around, cleaning, sorting, organising.

It was the most Q had seen him do in a single day since Sherlock’s death, nearly four months previously. Apparently, somebody else in the house had interrupted his lethargy, and finally inspired some form of action. He had suspected as much.

_It worked - Q_

Sherlock had been more than simply concerned; he had been entirely hysterical over John’s state, after he left. Q had never seen his big brother so worried. Q took Sherlock’s bribes, and agreed to look after John Watson.

“Who is he?” Bond asked. Q nearly snorted; he was transparently jealous. His expression was too flippant, too contrived. He stared at John’s image on the screen crossly.

Q twisted to Bond, and raised an eyebrow. “That is the man my brother is in love with. No, I have no interest. My brother will not admit any affection for approximately eighteen months. I have undergone the intriguing task of keeping this man alive, and safe, and preferably in the same flat, until my brother returns.”

Bond opened his mouth, and shut it again.

Q grinned.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! Uhm ... here's a prompt: While on a case, Sherlock & John somehow bump into 007. John & James are close friends from the army, but John thought James *died*, and now during their happy reunion Sherlock gets all possessive. He therefore deduces everything he can about 007 to lessen Johns opinion of James; then it all goes to hell. ((More internet cookies for both of you if Q somehow contributes to the info Sherlock deduces :) Good luck w/ the three week prompt-a-thon :D ) - ohshutupand-shipit

“John, _John_ , run!” Sherlock yelled, diving towards the end of the street. He ended up running directly into a suave-looking man in a glorious suit. Outline of gun in pocket, posture ex-military, certainly a lethal human being but _not his problem_. Not just then.

He twisted around the man in his path, and escaped. His mark was, by that stage, a very long way gone. “ _Damn it_ ,” he yelled.

“Oh my god, _James?!_ ” cried another voice. Sherlock’s eyes darted to John, who was suddenly attacking the man Sherlock had been blocked by in an embrace that was trying valiantly hard to be manly. “James, I thought you were dead, _Jesus_ , I’m just… How the hell are you?”

“John Watson,” the man said in a grumbling tone. The men split apart, both firing off mocking military salutes that weren’t quite right, and both snorted out laughs. “I’m not dead.”

“I fucking _gathered_ that,” John yelped. Sherlock straightened slightly, his upper lip crinkling; John was never profuse in physical attention, or even verbal attention a lot of the time, certainly never swore, and now here he was with ridiculous excitement and high-pitched voices and hugs where they hit each other repeatedly on the back and were just repulsively _happy_.

“A double-oh agent, hardly surprising he fell off your radar,” Sherlock said coldly. “An orphan, joined the army as a teen, suctioned into MI6. Oh good _god_ , you must work with my brother. That’s beside the point. The way he’s been acting recently, just… ergh. John, this man has murdered more people than you’ve probably ever had prolonged conversations with.”

John sobered quite quickly. “MI6?”

“Yes, the most immoral occupation one could have, in your opinion. He spies for money, he murders for money,” Sherlock said sharply, eyes darting between Bond and John. “He has guns strapped on and around his body, at least four. Posture has military hallmarks, but is too contrived, trained out. He assesses everything in a background, his eyes are darting even now. Accustomed to military scenarios. Given what Q’s told me, too… You’re a good agent, excellent shot, and in love with my baby brother. I dislike you.”

 John snorted. “You’re jealous. _Really,_ Sherlock?”

 “I’m not jealous. I dislike him.

“James, would you like to come over? Tea, et cetera?”

 “We probably have enough for a martini,” Sherlock said with dark, livid sarcasm. “I still dislike him, John.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose, shrugged at James, and glared at Sherlock with all the force at his disposal. Sherlock was simply _impossible_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q helps Mycroft keep an eye on John and Sherlock when they are separated post RBF. Bond worries about the amount of overtime Q is putting in. Bond decides enough is enough. - placeofold

“He’s alright, you know,” a voice told him. Q’s eyes were shuttering closed, watching the bright light of screens that constantly bloomed behind his eyes. He was keeping watertight control of his elder brother, and his brother’s best friend/other half, and had been almost nonstop for eight months.

He was going quietly insane.

Mycroft – his irritating eldest brother – was doing the same. Technically, Q was only monitoring Sherlock, as Sherlock was based internationally and John was only London. However, Mycroft was probably the worst of the Holmes siblings when it came to sympathy or care; John Watson didn’t stand a chance with Mycroft watching over him.

“He’s not ‘alright’,” Q yawned. “I’m doing my best, but…”

“I spoke to your brother,” Bond said absentmindedly.

Q froze. With lethal slowness, he rotated to face Bond. “You did _what?_ ”

“I spoke to your brother,” Bond repeated. “I let him know what you were doing, and that you were completely obsessed, and hadn’t slept properly in months. He agreed to take everything off your hands for a few days. You’re having a holiday.”

“I’m _what_?!” Q yelled at him. “Bond, you can’t _do that_ , I have _work_ , you arrogant…”

Bond shut him up by placing a kiss on his lips. Q sighed, rolled his eyes. “I’m taking the laptop,” he warned.

Bond snorted. Q could be startlingly naïve when he wanted to be.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, oh! Another prompt, my absolute favorite, is when one character is touch deprived. Like maybe Q was never hugged by his parents, not abused, and none of the other school children ever touched him. Or since he has little to no interest in sex, he just doesn't get touched that often. - concussedparanoia

One of Bond’s favourite things about Q was holding him.

Q was tense, tightly strung, elegant, any number of things. He didn’t indulge in casual touches, brushes, contact. Yet with Bond, he became intensely, bizarrely tactile. The first time they had kissed, Q had lingered, held on, kept himself pressed against Bond with a touch of need that was unfamiliar. Bond was not used to lovers _needing_ him, need was usually falsified.

“I’ve got you,” Bond murmured to him, gentle and soft, aware that he was dealing with somebody who was not especially good at physical contact.

He made an active, intentional effort the moment he realised. Bond’s fingers lingered on Q’s shoulder, watching the arc of his spine as he leant closer, the unintentional little gasp when their kisses broke, every part of him working so hard to stay close, and show he was loved.

“My parents died when I was young,” Q murmured, in the soft twilight, arms curled around one another like twin ivy vines. “I hopped between foster homes, I just… I never had contact. Nothing. I wasn’t well-liked at school, so… I don’t know, it must sound stupid.”

“No,” Bond murmured. “Not at all. It’s alright.”

The twilight faded into night, and Bond kissed his head, breathing in his hair, holding him as tight as he can, letting him drift outwards and into sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I loved your Bondlock fic, and I was wondering if you could do another one? Where Q finds Bond standing on the ledge of the roof of M16 (not to kill himself, but he does if as a way of relaxing or something) and Q freaks out, pulling him down and almost having a panic attack. When Bond asks what it was all about Q explains how Sherlock once faked his suicide and although he still has him now just seeing Bond there was too much for him. Thanks! - anon

Bond liked watching the world. Seeing London was simpler when in a place like this; the smoke and smog and dense noise and light of his home city couldn’t quite strangle him, he could see without being submerged.

He looked out over the city, and breathed it; he remembered M here too, for reasons best known to himself. London _was_ M, or had been; she had been alive in every part of the city, its silent heartbeat. He missed her still.

The shock of being dragged backwards nearly had the opposite effect of sending him forwards, as he instinctively pulled himself away. “ _Bond_ ,” the voice behind him snapped at him; Bond registered quite a tremendous degree of surprise, as he was pinned down by his partner. Half his age, and probably less than half his weight.

“What?!”

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?!” a hysterical, tearful Q cried at him. Bond rolled his eyes, trying to throw Q, and being utterly bloody _shocked_ at how Q’s legs clamped down around him, keeping him surprisingly well pinned. He wouldn’t be able to throw him without more force, and that stood a chance of hurting him.

“Looking at London?! Getting pinned on the roof of my workplace by my partner?” Bond suggested sarcastically. “Get off, would you? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Fucking try it,” Q snapped at him; regardless, he scurried backwards, assuming a rather defensive, strung pose.

“Q, what in the hell is all this about?” Bond asked carefully.

“My brother pretended to commit suicide by falling off a building,” Q said, voice somewhere between emotionless and confrontational. He glared at Bond through slightly sunken-looking eyes. “I… I came up, and I saw you, and… Sherlock, he wasn’t dead, but for a while I thought… I can’t, I can’t watch anything like that again.”

Bond let out a long exhale. “Okay. Alright. I’m sorry.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Q said, without meaning. The tension started to fall from him incrementally, leaving a shattered, empty Q staring up at him.

“He’s alright?”

“Yes. He faked his death to keep several friends of his safe,” Q explained, making little to no sense. Q shrugged awkwardly. “He didn’t come back for three years. It took me four months to work out that he was still alive. I thought he was dead, for four months. It’s not a pretty death, falling off a building.”

Bond couldn’t really say very much. “I have no intention of falling from a building,” he said, unhelpfully. Q rolled his eyes.

“Deft as always, Bond.”

“I try,” Bond said, smiling slightly. Q, to his credit, managed a small smile in return.

It was ok. They were ok.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt : Q reaction after the death of his brother Sherlock. He and James are a couple. Bond tries to help him deal with the loss. hurt/comfort/angst. Thank you. - anon

“Bond?”

Q sounds like hell, and Bond is immediately on edge. “Q? Q, are you alright?”

“No, I’m not,” Q tells him, voice thick but deafeningly fragile. “My brother just killed himself.”

-

Bond had never met Sherlock, but knew he was important to Q; somebody to respect, to live up to. Q loved him. His suicide had come as an unbelievable shock to Q; it was a very long way from anything he could have possibly expected of his brother.

By the time Bond arrived at their flat, Q had stopped crying. He lay catatonically on the sofa, watching television burble. Q never watched television, hated most of the shows, saw little point.

“Where’s Mycroft?” Bond asked; Q’s eldest brother should have been there, should have been taking care of a brother so many years his junior, who may not have been as able to handle it as well.

Q shrugged. He seemed to be watching a teleshopping channel, engrossed in the finer points of a disposal mop. “He had work,” Q said flatly, and took another sip of the bottle of whiskey he was cradling between his knees. “He won’t come. Mycroft doesn’t deal with grief. He keeps working. I’ll be back at MI6 tomorrow, but I thought a day or so wasn’t unreasonable.”

Bond didn’t argue with that. Q would recover however he wanted, in his own time.

“Why?” Bond asked gently, sitting next to Q on the sofa. Q was still staring, eyes red-rimmed, and understood what the question referred to.

“He got too involved in a case. He was publically smeared. Mycroft has since found out that his closest friends were threatened. Sherlock killed himself to keep them safe,” Q explained, without any texture or depth. “I was going to introduce you soon. As it is, I’d appreciate you accompanying me to the funeral.”

“Yes,” Bond replied simply. “Do you want a glass for that?” he asked, as Q took another swig from the bottle.

“I’m good,” Q told him, an edge of confrontation in his tone. Bond shrugged.

“Please be careful, alcohol poisoning won’t help,” Bond noted, reaching out to Q; Q finally broke his gaze from the TV, and fixed on Bond instead.

“He was brilliant,” Q mumbled at him, breath reeking of alcohol; Bond reached out, gently tugged the bottle out from between Q’s knees, placed it on the table. “A total bastard, seriously, absolute wanker, but he was my brother, you’re allowed to hate your siblings.”

Bond nodded. He had never had siblings; he had no idea how it felt, being that close, that far, from somebody.

Q folded into Bond’s arms. “Jesus, Bond. I haven’t seen him in person since Christmas… and that’s it, that’s the last memory I’ll have of him. I could have helped as well, that’s my fucking _job_ , but he didn’t… he wasn’t… he didn’t even get in touch, family reunion wouldn’t have been ideal at that moment, but Mycroft and I… we could have kept him safe.”

“You can’t blame yourself.”

Q laughed horribly. “On this one, it’s fucking true,” he sobbed, crumpling. Bond wouldn’t be able to communicate a damn thing of any use to Q, not now. He had very few options but let Q exhaust himself, and talk to him in the morning. Keep him away from alcohol poisoning, and love him as much he could.

“I’m sorry,” Bond murmured. Q sobbed into his chest, and after a long while, fell asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Your post about meeting Q's parents was so beautiful, but so angsty qq. Can I request a fic where Bond and Q go to a family dinner to meet the new boyfriend? Maybe BondLock and Bond has to fend for himself against Q's two overprotective brothers? :D - anon

“He’s a double-oh agent,” Sherlock said instantly. “Presumably kills indiscriminately?”

Bond took a breath. Q had warned him about this, in all fairness; Sherlock and Mycroft were stratospherically intelligent, and by virtue of being six, and thirteen years older than him respectively, were ridiculously overprotective.

“A government pawn since childhood; lacking a certain degree of autonomy therefore, it is fair to assume,” Sherlock continued to drawl, cocking his head at Bond, reading as much as he was able. “Q, what in the hell do you see in him?”

Bond ignored him, and slid out a hand to shake with the imposing-looking man at the end of the corridor. “Mycroft Holmes,” the man said, with a smile that hid daggers perfectly. Bond had met many people in his life who could hide knives in smiles, and yet, Mycroft was unusually unnerving.

“Both of you, behave?” Q asked tiredly, running a hand through his hair.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “I honestly believed I had done nothing of note,” Mycroft pointed out. Bond would almost have agreed, if it weren’t for the very faint but notable sensation that Mycroft was frightening on a basic, visceral level.

“You’re giving him your ‘I could kill you easily’ stare,” Q told him sharply. “Come on, you both said you’d at least make an effort to be normal.”

“That’s his normal face, I wouldn’t hold out hope,” Sherlock quipped; Mycroft’s expression darkened further, and Bond felt Q squeeze his hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” Bond told them, suave and charming as ever. Mycroft and Sherlock both twisted around to him with unearthly slowness, eyes flicking up and down his form, trying to sense insincerity; they were brilliant, but Bond made a living of lying when he needed to.

Mycroft nodded. Sherlock grimaced slightly. “You had better take care of our youngest brother.”

“I’m going to kill you both.”

“Shut up, Q,” Sherlock shot at him. “Or I’ll tell him your real name.”

“Don’t tell him to shut up, and certainly don’t blackmail him,” Bond told him sharply; a strange flush suddenly erupted high on Sherlock’s cheekbones, and Q squeezed his fingers, another warning. “You can be a tosser towards me, by all means, but not him.”

“He can stand up for himself,” Mycroft said, his voice cool. Not cold, not yet.

“I know. But you wanted me to prove your point, so I’m doing it. Q doesn’t need anybody fighting his corner, he can happily do it himself,” Bond replied, with a thin smile. While Sherlock gradually continued turning puce, Mycroft returned Bond’s smile; Bond suddenly got the impression that he had done something correct.

He rubbed a thumb over Q’s knuckles; Q wrapped a hand around his neck, kissed him in front of his brothers – Sherlock complained loudly, Mycroft just sighed – and  Q breathed in his ear: “Well handled.”

Bond grinned. Now to survive the rest of the night.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *squeeee* Thank you for the last fill! It was PERFECT! Thank you for the happy ending, too much angst in 00Q fandom for me lately x.x And I have so many ideas in my head but no time to write so I shall keep giving them to you to make into beautiful things :] How about: The one night Q wears a suit he runs into Anderson and Donovan who think he's Sherlock. They make fun of him, as they do with Sherlock, before realizing he's not the man after all. James (and Q) exact revenge? - blueskycloud9

“Hey, freak!”

Q didn’t believe they were talking to him, initially. He continued walking, ignoring them as much as he could; he was intending to go out for a simple dinner with Bond, slightly higher-end than usual.

“Social skills as good as usual, then?” another voice called; Q stilled slightly, footsteps stalling. “Yeah, freak, we’re talking to you.”

Q grabbed his phone, angling a mirror attachment to catch those behind. A bushy-haired woman with a supercilious expression, hip to hip with a ratty-looking man who looked vaguely disgusted, apparently with Q. Q narrowed his eyes. Only a few more feet, and he would be able to vanish; the house he was approaching was empty, judging by the ‘sold’ notice on the door, and the obvious tracks of furniture having been moved.

“Are you deaf now, freak?” the woman called. “Holmes!”

Q gave a slow smile. Ah. Alright then – they believed him Sherlock. That made a lot more sense. Q wasn’t hated by enough people to merit the name ‘freak’ on a day-to-day basis.

He slid into a side door; he had a universal ‘master’ key, easily vanished through the door, and phoned James. “Bond, we have a small situation. Type 0990 into your phone when I hang up. Track me here, do not use the front door. Mimic the Carson mission.”

Q extended a small microphone through the side of the door, picking up on noises from the street; he had piqued the interest of the morons mocking him. This promised to be an amusing evening. The woman was concerned that ‘Sherlock’ was breaking and entering, the man just continued to make disparaging comments about Sherlock in general.

Bond would take a couple of minutes. In the meantime, Q prepared himself, and let out a wrenching scream.

That would attract attention. Excellent. Q quickly rattled through a message to his favourite Q-branch minion; any calls from Q’s location would be blocked out. This would remain strictly small-scale.

The two outside went crazy. “Open up! Police!” they yelled in unison, the woman more excitable than the man. Q sounded nothing like Sherlock; they were assuming the worst.

“Q…” Bond asked from behind; Q smirked. Bond was excellent at arriving when summoned.

Q kissed him very quickly. “My name’s Sherlock Holmes, they addressed me as such. Now go.”

The two broke down the door in tandem with Bond fastening a hand around Q’s neck, and placing a gun against his temple. “Good evening,” Bond said politely, as the two police officers quietly panicked. Neither were armed; they were just out for an evening, and picked the wrong person to bully. “Your names?”

“I’m Sally Donovan, this is Anderson,” the woman said slowly, calmly; Q’s face was partially obscured, both of them unable to tell in the dim light that it wasn’t Sherlock Holmes. “Please release your hostage.”

“Sherlock Holmes is of value to me. You two are not,” Bond told them both, flicking the hammer back.

“Wait. _Wait_ , Jesus, _jesus,_ that isn’t Sherlock,” Anderson bleated, whacking Sally’s arm. “You have the wrong man.”

“You addressed him as Sherlock Holmes,” Bond told him; Q started talking, the gun digging further into the side of his head, making him fall silent again. “What brought you in here?”

“We believed the man you have hostage was Sherlock Holmes. He isn’t,” Sally said quickly, arms extended to placate Bond. “Put the firearm down. We are police officers.”

“If he isn’t Sherlock Holmes, then he is of no use to me,” Bond said, throwing Q to the floor; Q gave a very nicely pitched sob of terror, as Bond stared at Anderson and Donovan, quite prepared to shoot him. Or so the story went.

Q reached into his jacket, finding his own gun; this would bloody well teach him to not to wear a suit. He whimpered on the floor, rolling his eyes as the police officers lapped it up beautifully.

Bond pressed the gun to the back of his head. Nice touch.

In unison, Bond and Q stepped back. Q pulled his own gun out, Bond fixing his to aim at Donovan, Q’s at Anderson. They gripped one another, suddenly rather frightened.

“I would be very wary of who you upset,” Q said flatly, wiping crocodile tears from his cheeks. “Sherlock Holmes is an extraordinary man, with some rather formidable contacts. I would strongly suggest a cessation of insults.”

The two nodded, eyes saucer-wide. Q smiled pleasantly, pocketed his gun, indicating for Bond to do the same. He brushed past the pair, into the fresh air of the evening. Bond followed a moment later, and they walked away without looking back.

“Sherlock’s my brother,” Q explained. “They were being exceptionally unpleasant. Thank you, Bond, I owe you for that.”

“You can buy me dinner,” Bond retorted cheekily. Q rolled his eyes; Bond had expensive tastes. Ah well. He could manage that.

He kissed Bond again, straightened his collar. “Deal.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I dont know if you have this prompt or if you are taking them but this is something I think hasnt been done. I hope. I want Q to introduce James to his brother Sherlock and have Watson be completely attracted to James causing Sherlock and Q to become very jealous. Sherlock blaming it on James and Q blaming Watson. fluff and such. - anon

“I’m going to _kill_ you,” Sherlock hissed at his _idiotic_ little brother, the bastard, who had brought his dear _boyfriend_ to _dinner_ and caused Doctor/Captain John Watson to turn into a _complete idiot_.

Said idiotic younger brother had turned an intriguing shade of puce. “This isn’t exactly the best thing that has ever happened to me either. Bond is a flirt, he’s always been a flirt…”

“Scared?” Sherlock asked, angry and smug all at once, and managing to accurately convey _neither_ emotion.

Q snarled. “Not even slightly. I can keep hold of Bond.”

Sherlock looked emphatically into the living room, and his eyes darkened visibly; Q went slightly pale, doing exactly the same, the pair of them watching Bond and John chat, laughing with one another, absolutely bloody _delighted_ with one another’s company.

“I’m strongly considering fratricide,” Q hissed, as Bond’s arm managed to sneak around John’s back without being even faintly obvious or unpleasant. “Oh _god_.”

“No,” Sherlock rasped, as John’s body language changed quite obviously, tilting closer to Bond, the smile turning very slightly lustful. “No, _no_.”

Bond’s hand on John’s trouser leg, John smiling slightly at the contact, Bond’s lips murmuring something too low to hear, and both brothers were going _insane_. “He wouldn’t,” Q murmured, almost vulnerably, as Bond leaned forward.

Sherlock snapped.

“ _Hello_ ,” Sherlock yelled at them, petulant and angry and hurt. “You… John, _why_ …”

Far from repentant, Bond and John slid away from one another, and collapsed with laughter. “Oh _god_ , the pair of you. The kitchen is _right there,_ we could hear every bloody word!” John snorted, while Bond stood, still giggling, wrapping Q in his arms despite Q’s mild protests.

“You are far too sensitive,” Bond pointed out to Q; Q whacked him around the back of the head – which Bond conceded he deserved, and winked at John, who was being pretty much molested by a very over-possessive Sherlock.

Bond and Doctor John Watson were going to get on _just fine_ , it seemed.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First of all your writing is incredible! Second, could you please do a Bondlock fic, where maybe something happens to Sherlock and he ends up in hospital? Q and Bond are dating, and while at work Q gets informed by John or Mycroft that Sherlocks been hurt and he rushes out? Bond is worried because he didn't think Q had siblings? Thank you! :)) - anon

Q’s secondary mobile was his priority phone.  It stayed on him at all times, regardless of circumstance or convenience. Four people in the world had the number. Q had never told Bond which four. Assuming Bond was one – which he was – there were three mysteries in Q’s life that Bond didn’t know. He was curious, naturally, but it was Q’s business.

“Yes?” Q said efficiently; he was overseeing Q-branch, a relatively normal day at the office. “Well. I didn’t expect to hear from you… what? _What_? Are you… yes, obviously. I assume Bart’s?… his status?… _Mycroft_ , I asked a question… Yes, I’ll be there imminently.”

With that, Q signed out of MI6 HQ, and didn’t return for the rest of the day.

-

A rather confused Bond entered Q-branch to find Q absent. One of the Q-branch kids explained that he’d left in a hurry, some type of emergency.

Bond called Q, on the priority phone. “Yes?”

“Where are you?” Bond asked directly. “You’re not at work.”

“Obviously,” Q replied sharply. “St Bart’s hospital. My brother was in an incident in the early hours of this morning, just he came out of surgery. Come find me, if you want.”

Bond is already out the building.

-

The man in the bed looks impressively similar to Q. He is completely unconscious, and will remain so for a while; he was stabbed twice, thankfully by somebody relatively inept. By the look of his defensive wounds, Sherlock was also at least in part to commend for avoiding any lethal blows.

The man next to the bed is possibly the most intimidating man Bond has ever come across. There are very few people who can intimidate Bond. Muscles, anything physical, isn’t impressive to him; however, Mycroft Holmes captures some sense of absolutely terrifying power. He doesn’t need to say or do anything to confirm it. Bond just _knows_.

“Mycroft, Bond,” Q says, gesturing between them vaguely. “Mycroft and Sherlock are my elder brothers, by twelve and five years respectively.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Bond says politely. Mycroft smiled in a way that speaks of the conversation they will have later. Q quietly hopes Mycroft won’t actually abduct Bond, it won’t end well for either of them.

Later, Bond caught Q in a quiet moment. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. Q managed an odd smile.

“It’s my identity,” Q murmured. “This is who I was. My family, my old life. Events like this illustrate that regardless of how strong they ostensibly seem, they aren’t invincible. I don’t want to jeopardise them.”

Bond placed a soft hand on Q’s. He could understand, and wasn’t upset at not being told. He had to have his secrets, everybody had to have their secrets, and only Q could be holding back a secret like _Mycroft Holmes_ , most frightening man alive. Evidently, Q had one hell of a family.

Bond was already looking forward to finding out more.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> love your writing!! could you write one where sally and anderson find out the hard way that you really shouldn't call sherlock a freak in front of q and/or mycroft? =) - anon

The Holmes brothers had met for lunch on Safe Territory. Given that Mycroft and Q both worked in governmental departments, they had no place in the world that was Safe Territory. They had migrated to 221B Baker Street, mostly because of John Watson, who was _definitely_ Safe Territory.

John was the only thing preventing the three brothers from killing one another, most of the time. They met, John made tea, Mycroft and Q occasionally swapped government stories, Sherlock and Mycroft were condescending towards Q, Sherlock and Q both bullied Mycroft for being a prick. They didn’t need further reasons.

The hammering on the door got ridiculous, and Mrs Hudson let them in.

Sally Donovan barged through the door, with Anderson directly on her heels. Sally – as always – demonstrated absolutely no regard for Sherlock, despite him being with company: “Hey freak, we’ve been trying to call you all bloody day.”

“Good evening, Ms Donovan,” Mycroft said smoothly; Sally looked at Mycroft, eyes narrowing.

“How do you know my…?”

“Sorry, mind if I borrow your phone?” Q asked, without elaborating, hand already extended; John, in the doorway, watched the cogs literally start turning in Sally’s brain. Sherlock was still, in a way that – to John at least – promised some from of impending hell.

Q looked relatively harmless. Sally relinquished her phone. Really, it was a losing battle from that stage onwards. “What are you…?”

Q flipped open the back, gazed at several parts of it. “Mycroft?” he said absentmindedly, pulling out a minute pair of tweezers from his cardigan pocket. Sally watched Q with alarm, not disrupting him due to a simple bit of curiosity.

Sherlock had started to smirk.

“My youngest sibling is simply demonstrating that we will not allow anybody to verbally abuse, or belittle, Sherlock,” Mycroft drawled at her, leant on his umbrella; he didn’t look even faintly perturbed, as Q started to rewire a part of her phone, the phone still lit at the front, the battery connected by a minute wire Q had extracted.

John watched Q pull out something minutely small from his pocket. He ripped open the plastic with his teeth, attached it to the phone, as Sherlock continued to stare smugly at Donovan and Anderson. “Sibling?”

“Mycroft and Q Holmes,” Sherlock said simply, waving between his brothers. Q replaced the back of the phone, typing into it instead.

“There are three of you?” Anderson asked coldly. Q looked up, eyes narrowing.

“Thank you Anderson,” Mycroft told him; Q smiled, returned his attention to the phone. “Now both of you, kindly remember this, when you leave – you will not use demeaning language around my brother again. I believe Q is in the process of destroying your personal lives. I can easily be employed to destroy your professional.”

Q continued to smile agreeably, handing the phone back to Sally. As he did so, Anderson’s phone _binged_ an incoming message. He read it, face turning terrifyingly pale. “Sally…”

“What did you _do?!_ ” she shrieked at Q; he sat back, sipping his tea, watching Sally’s world disintegrate. Every person in her contact book had just been subject to her phone – and browsing – history. It was enough to happily trash her social life, her relationship.

Splendid.

Sally gave a harassed cry, and stormed out of 221B, not a long way from a breakdown, which she simply _refused_ to do in front of Sherlock. Anderson followed, glancing at Q and Mycroft with respect and mild fear. Definitely a wise response.

Q sipped his tea, exchanged glances with Mycroft and Sherlock. The three dissolved into laughter, in the middle of Sherlock’s flat – even Mycroft, which for John at least, was certainly a new experience.

Nobody bullied the Holmes brothers.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HI I ADORE ALL YOUR WRITING <3 could i prompt a fic where sherlock and mycroft come to q's defense? (maybe bond can realize that he doesn't have to protect q when the holmes brothers are concerned) - anon

“Really, Bond, I’m _fine_ ,” Q insisted, brushing off the attempted kidnap as though it was of no consequence, fingers lightly probing the swelling to his skull, the stitches across his collarbone. “Kindly leave it alone?”

“I swear, I’ll…”

“You will do nothing,” a calm, cold voice told him from the doorway; Bond twisted around, grimacing slightly at the sight of Mycroft Holmes.

Bond had been introduced to Q’s siblings – mercifully not at the same time – on a handful of occasions. He could honestly say that he was not very keen on either brother. Mycroft was unspeakably arrogant, and Sherlock was the most socially inept human being Bond had ever encountered.

“Mycroft, _please_ tell me you’re not getting involved?” Q asked wearily. This was quite enough of a nightmare with Mycroft getting his interfering arse involved.

Mycroft smiled humourlessly. “In this instance, both Sherlock and I are involved,” Mycroft told Q, who let out a helpless moan. “Given the risk to your safety, it seemed wise.”

“I am _fine_ ,” Q reiterated. “I…”

“Sherlock has examined the scene, and with some research, intends to find the identity of your would-be abductors,” Mycroft explained, completely ignoring his youngest brother’s protestations. “I have a team on standby. I will be tracing them, and taking charge of the consequent interrogation.”

Q closed his eyes, breathed out slowly. “Mycroft, this is _completely…_ ”

“Given the strength of the blow to your head, and the additional use of weaponry at this stage of the proceedings, it is a safe deduction that they would escalate violence very quickly,” Mycroft explained curtly. “Sherlock and I have no interest in seeing you harmed. Consider this a positive, we’re actually working _together_.”

The incoherent garbles contained a few curses, and a barely-voiced thanks.

“Bond, you will remain here, with Q,” Mycroft told him, in a tone that sounded perilously close to being an order. Bond naturally opened his mouth to object; Mycroft shot him a dangerous glance, stilling Bond mid-motion. “Our brother is our responsibility,” he told Bond slowly, dangerously. “As long as he cares for you, you are to keep yourself out of avoidable danger.”

Q looked like he wanted to either die, or kill Mycroft, on the spot. “Myc…”

“Do I make myself clear?” Mycroft cut over, still staring at Bond without mercy.

Bond did the only thing he could possibly do; he nodded. He didn’t have any intention of hurting Q; a sentiment shared to almost fanatical devotion, judging by Q’s siblings, who would apparently do almost anything for their baby brother.

Mycroft managed a smile, nodded to Bond and Q. “I will contact you when we have updates,” he said curtly, and walked away, umbrella swinging from his hand.

Well then. That would be the last time Bond underestimated the Holmes brothers.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OMG! Thank you for doing the Baby!Q it was on my mind for a while and I can't write for the life of me! It was awesome! I've got another for ya if you don't mind, so Sherlock is Q's older brother, but instead of being the loving brother he's kind of neglected Q and that caused him to have relationship issues, cause if your family can't love you who can? - anon

“Q?” Bond asked; Q sat, fork dangling from nerveless fingers, barely responding. He glanced up at Bond, seeing Bond’s expectant, slightly amused expression.

He sighed slightly. “Sorry, not with it at all tonight,” he murmured sadly; Bond’s concern was quite definitely roused. This was a date, supposedly, and Q was completely absent from the proceedings. His expression queried. “Sorry. I had some news about my brother today, I’m just… James, can I ask you something?”

Bond leaned forward slightly, catching Q’s words carefully. “Go on?”

Q’s mouth opened; he was very close to speaking, but something in his brain aborted the question before he managed it.

“Q, are you alright?”

He managed a sideways, reluctant shrug. He wasn’t really alright, to be honest. Sherlock had relapsed, was back in hospital – and Q hadn’t known about it. Mycroft had long since written off Q, but Sherlock – who Q had always looked up to more than anybody – he still hoped would talk to him, trust him.

It was a terrifying thought, that Bond may find him boring. Eventually, everybody lost interest in him; the novelty value wore off, and Q was left behind, watching the wreckage of his family and friends and relationships.

Sherlock had completely screwed over how he related to other people, and he _knew_ that. It was the most galling possible thing. He could see all his faults and insecurities, and yet still couldn’t get past it. The more he loved Sherlock, the less Sherlock liked him. The more he worshipped his elder brother, the more contemptuous he had grown.

He had been hauled in rehab, again, and hadn’t even bothered to contact his younger sibling. He’d even managed to contact _Mycroft_. Q had found out by accident, by spying on Mycroft.

Bond said he liked Q, and Q knew he liked Bond. He liked Bond a _lot_. He didn’t want to end up falling in love with him, however; that would be too dangerous for them both.

Q jumped slightly, as Bond placed a hand over Q’s. He didn’t ask anything further, didn’t probe into something that wasn’t his business. He offered silent, strong support, and stayed.

Not falling in love was going to be difficult.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love your work, so I thought I'd try: Bondlock, Q wants Bond who knows about Q's feelings but is sort of dismissive about it. Same goes for John and Sherlock. Q and John meet, become friends and/or start dating. Bond and Sherlock catch a clue and feel really jealous/guilty/depressed. Maybe they try to break up John and Q, who are enjoying this immensely. Who ends up with whom is up to you, but I'd prefer that if John's with Sherlock after Q that Q isn't a Holmes. Imagine the Christmas dinners ;) - piepelow

“So what’s his name?” Bond asked, watching Q type; Q glanced up, raised an eyebrow. He had no idea how Bond knew he had met somebody – stalking via CCTV, most likely – but there seemed little point in denying it.

“John,” he replied, with a light shrug. “John Watson.”

-

“His name?” Sherlock demanded imperiously; John took a deep, calming breath, still reading his newspaper.

“Q,” he replied, before Sherlock could expand on _every single point_ that made it obvious that he had found somebody, somebody who could try to fill the aching gap that Sherlock’s rejection had left.

-

“You should tell him,” John pointed out over drinks; Q glanced up, eyes melancholic, nodded. They were very honest with one another. They weren’t quite dating. It was more a marriage of mutual convenience. Both had tried it on in a pub local to them both, spent a night feeling awkward, confessed that _both_ were hung up on other men.

They met up for drinks, had rapidly become quite close friends.

Q’s mobile buzzed, for the fourth time that evening; Q gave an exaggerated groan, collapsing onto the table in front of him. John snorted into his beer.

“The man barely notices my existence for months. I tell him about you, and…”

“Sherlock was _exactly_ the same!” John laughed. “I turned my phone off, in the end. The bastard tells me he’s married to his work, doesn’t want to know. Now he thinks I’m _with_ somebody…”

“Men,” Q said with a wry, slightly alcohol-fuelled nod.

“Men,” John conceded, and took another drink.

-

“I don’t like you seeing him,” Sherlock said, aloof, hands playing over his violin more eloquently than his words; he plays tunes of longing and sadness without conscious intention, jealous climbing through the climaxes and diminishing into obsession and quiet.

John watched Sherlock over the top of his cup of tea. “Why not?”

Sherlock snorted, continued to play. John placed the tea on the table, walked to Sherlock, lowered the violin from under his chin, and kissed him. He could have been waiting _years_ for Sherlock to make a move.

“Dinner?” he said with a smile that tried valiantly hard not to be triumphant; Sherlock’s cheeks had flushed a light dappled scarlet, and he nodded.

He went back to playing the violin.

-

Bond stood in the doorway, watching Q work. “I don’t like you seeing him,” he said, a statement Q shouldn’t have worked around.

Q watched Bond over the top of his computer screen. “Why not?”

Bond took a handful of steps forwards, grabbed Q by the ridiculous cardigan he was wearing, hoisted him upright and kissed him with intense ferocity. Bond, at least, doesn’t waste time once he’s made up his mind.

“Better,” Q said primly, and returned to typing, smirking as he did.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello ^^ I saw Skyfall last weekend, and followed you the very next day :x You're an incredible writer! I'm soooo in love with your fills. Okay, it'll be nice if you can fill this prompt: Bondlock, in which Mycroft and Sherlock (and their partners, if you want) fight in their own way to protect their little bro Q against the world. (Can be super serious, like the Government/disease, or super fluff, the bugs... Okay you can write anything you like, I just want a little family feels ^^). Thank you - anon

The Holmes brothers were superb within their own spheres, when it came to protecting Q. Mycroft and Sherlock agreed only on the subject of their youngest sibling; no harm would come to Q as long as the pair were there to prevent it.

Mycroft had de facto control of the British Government. Everything Q did could be monitored – more importantly, if there were any threats to Q’s welfare that came through his job, or workplace, Mycroft stamped on them unbelievably fast.

Double-oh seven was kidnapped into a meeting with Mycroft within six hours of making advances.

Sherlock actually turned up for the interrogation. It was only under very extraordinary circumstances that Sherlock could wind up playing the ‘good cop’ equivalent. In practise, he and Mycroft just worked in tandem to be utterly terrifying. Bond – who had stared down gun barrels with minimal stress – could honestly say it the most terrifying event of his life.

He would go to grave denying that, but the point still stood.

Sherlock, for his part, utilised his formidable resources; nobody was as understatedly brilliant as the Homeless Network. Black cars with tinted windows were conspicuous. A middle-aged man wrapped in a sleeping bag was not. Sherlock had a permanent sentry around Q’s flat, others that monitored his route to work.

Q Holmes was the safest man in the world.

When Q managed to get himself kidnapped – as was rather predictable, in his job – Sherlock found the kidnappers, and Mycroft supplied the teams to get him back again. Both brothers then took slow joy in studying human capacity for pain pre-mortem.

Ironically, they never really saw Q these days; all three brothers were absurdly busy in their relative occupations. Mycroft was the family caregiver; he found those close to his siblings, vetted them, kept his younger brothers as safe as he could, as safe as they would allow.

After all, it was hardly beyond the wit of man to install security systems in 221B, when it was Q who had made them; the things were completely undetectable, even by Sherlock.

Sherlock just loved his brother. It was Q. For whatever psychotic reason, Q had managed to slide past each of Sherlock’s defences, leaving him utterly vulnerable, and thus with a _very_ vested interest in Q’s safety.

“Your family is very dysfunctional,” Bond growled, having managed to ID the two men who had professionally abducted him.

Q simply snorted. “Dysfunctional doesn’t _begin_ to cover it.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I've read most of your Filled Prompts and I loved them! Could you do one on how Sherlock(John) and Q(Bond) deal with Mycroft missing or hurt? I've noticed that most prompts are dealing with Q reacting to Sherlocks acts, and Mycroft is my favorite. :) He could be shot, self-harm, torture, kidnaped, anything like that. Thank you very much! Mycroft and Athena, Sherlock and John, Q and James Bond - anon

“Sherlock?”

“What do you want, baby brother?” Sherlock drawled; Q only ever called when he needed something. John, next to him, rolled his eyes; Sherlock was unflinchingly rude to those who deserved considerably better.

Q pursed his lips slightly; Bond stood guard over him, stoic and expressionless, prepared to keep Q safe from even his brothers. “Sherlock, try to avoid the sarcasm for _one moment_. Mycroft’s gone missing.”

Sherlock’s expression closed in on itself. “Location?”

“His flat. I need your eyes, I’ll handle from there.”

“Will contact imminently,” Sherlock replied shortly, and hung up.

-

“Within London. Four men at present, but they’re mere pawns. Blood already split, minimal however,” Sherlock confirmed. “Get your agent boyfriend dispatched as soon as you have a location, John and I are tracking down further leads.”

“Thank you,” Q replied, far more politely than his elder brother, who hung up without a further word.

-

Between them, they tracked down Mycroft in precisely four hours.

“Medical team are ready when you are,” Q said carefully, scanning the information carefully; he had CCTV of Mycroft being pulled into a building – somehow managing to maintain poise despite being manhandled – with a split lip, looking a little battered but intact.

“Where’s Bond?”

“A long way ahead of you,” Q returned; he listened to Doctor Watson dispatch one or two at his end, absolved from responsibility given that this was MI6 business. “James, status?”

“Hostiles neutralised,” Bond replied. “Target secured. Medical team?”

“Sherlock, I need your assessment before MI6 get involved,” Q said snappily, telling the team to stall for a moment or two. “Move quickly.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, but then, Q hadn’t honestly expected him to. “Small terrorist unit, seeking British intelligence. He’s alright, Q, he’ll be fine.”

“A cracked rib or two, some painful  but basically superficial injuries, probable concussion, but he will be fine,” John supplemented, already utilising basic medical skills to stabilise Mycroft.

Q let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “All of you out, and to safety, if you please. Medical team?”

“Present and correct,” Sherlock drawled. “We’re on our way out. A pleasure working with you, dear brother, I shall see you in Barts – I assume you’re routing Mycroft there?”

“Of course,” Q replied, and smirked. His brother was an insufferable prat, but he did care. He trusted Barts, he trusted John and – miraculously – trusted Q. Their big brother was their point of contact. Mycroft could almost always take care of himself, but Sherlock and Q would end worlds to ensure they protected him on the very occasions when he couldn’t himself.

“Be safe, Q,” Sherlock said simply, his only way of expressing affection. Q snorted, and just hoped Sherlock and Bond would make it out of the building without killing one another. It would really put a dampener on things if they didn’t.

He laughed softly. “Yes, yes, you too.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My only alteration is that nobody appears to like Mycroft. I love Mycroft. Poor man.” No, why? I love Mycroft. This loving man. So prompt: Big Brother!Mycroft to Sherlock and Q, hurt/comfort. I love your stories, so please don’t forget the Comfort part, please ~*o*~ - anon

Mycroft did not easily succumb to sentiment, or romantic attachments. It had been nearly a decade since his last romantic dalliance, and quite frankly, it was not an experience he wished to repeat. Romance involved other people – always a disappointment – and far too many bodily fluids.

He worked, instead. He channelled all he was into his work, and had no qualms about it.

And on the sidelines, in the foreground, in the background, in every _shadow_ of every part of Mycroft’s life, there were his siblings.

Sherlock, seven years his junior, and the most emotionally erratic human being Bond would ever know. Terrifyingly intelligent, but with no concept of social conventions or how to be around people. Succumbed to drugs to stop the whining emptiness of boredom – too easily obtained – and fell hard.

Mycroft had no initiated contact from Sherlock for four hundred and twenty one days, after he’d staged the intervention. He counted the days.

Q, meanwhile, slid through the cracks, growing amidst the dysfunctionality like a resilient weed amongst rocks. He could fight, could survive.

When Q went to university, Mycroft planted a student to keep watch. Q only discovered long after entering MI6. He sulked at Mycroft for exactly a week.

Mycroft still counted the days.

He justified his attentions on the basis that this was not mere ‘sentiment’, a flight of logic and fancy; his love for his younger brothers was tangible and immediate, durable. He could allow himself that. It gave him a focus, clarity; as long as his siblings were safe, his life could continue.

“What is the nature of your relationship with Q?” Mycroft asked lightly, weight slightly leant against his umbrella – a gift from Sherlock when he was twenty-six – assessing the agent who had needed drugged, and forcibly attaching to a chair, in order to make sure he didn’t kill Mycroft on the spot.

“Who are you?”

The statutory reply: “An interested party. I am here to inform you that should any harm come to him, havoc will be wrought upon your life. I will not be held responsible should that ultimately be the case.”

Bond’s expression didn’t change. “The nature of our association is none of your concern,” he phrased carefully; Mycroft smiled slightly, without humour. He was intelligent, would not crumple under this form of scenario. Good at his job, then. His body language was all that betrayed him, to somebody like Mycroft.

John Watson had been the same; he had spoken the right words, carefully and confidently, but his body language spoke worlds. The loss of a tremor, the vague shadows of discomfort and fear. Bond was far better at this, but hardly perfect; nowhere near enough for Mycroft Holmes.

“I believe I have made myself clear,” he said instead; the agent’s eyes narrowed slightly. He had expected more. “Given that you are transparently preparing to cause trouble should I release you, I am instead going to drug you, and place you back from whence you came. Thank you for your time, Mr Bond.”

Bond felt a sharp stab at the side of his neck; Mycroft watched the instincts play out, fear and anger, as the agent’s eyes rolled back. Q would be safe, with a man like that. And if he ever was not, Mycroft had few qualms about intervening.

For better or worse, he protected his brothers.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Bondlock with James taking care of heartbroken Molly in a big brother kind of way? Please? :3 - anon

Molly Hooper was a forensic pathologist. More than that, she was _exceptional_ at her job. She was probably one of the most socially bereft people in the Northern Hemisphere, but she was also immensely sweet, and deserved better than Sherlock Holmes making her feel worthless.

Bond had met her by accident. MI6 consulted forensics expects around the country; they pulled in Molly to look at the body of an arms dealer, associated with a case Bond was assigned to. She had been accurate and precise, although exceptionally skittish.

They formed an odd little friendship. They rarely ever saw one another, but it was always nice when they did. They exchanged stories and little segments of their lives – Molly had signed the Official Secrets Act a year or so previously, when a certain Mycroft Holmes asked for her professional opinion – so Bond had some, very elastic freedom over what he could tell her. He had never been one to obey rules anyway.

“How’s your man?” Bond asked, over a drink. Molly smiled nervously, blonde hair falling in her eyes; she was rather pretty, when not in a lab coat. Mousy, quite forgettable. She had been trying to get a certain Sherlock Holmes to notice her for _months_ , with little to no success.

Molly smiled tearfully, trying to pretend she wasn’t upset. “He’s, well. He’s sortof with somebody,” Molly managed, her voice quiet, sad. “I didn’t… I’ve never known him with anybody, so I didn’t, I mean, I didn’t see it coming…”

Bond reached out, placing a hand over hers comfortingly. She half-smiled again, crying very slightly, not even noticing. “It’s horrible, when that happens,” he agreed with her, letting her sip at more of her lemonade – she hated alcohol – and catch her breath a little.

“He’s _gay_ ,” Molly said abruptly, which was the point at which she finally burst into tears.

Bond moved around; they were in a booth, so he moved to shelter her, wrapping his arms around her and she cried. She told Bond all about Doctor John Watson, about how happy Sherlock seemed, how she had been noticed – just for a while – when Sherlock faked his death.

Bond just suspended his disbelief on that particular anecdote. He’d heard weirder things.

“For a bit, you know, I just… I _mattered_ ,” she told him, breath hitching, finally able to release some of the sadness that lived in her.

“Now come on,” Bond told her, lifting her up, giving her a look. “Of course you matter. You mattered enough for him to talk to _you_ , not his now-boyfriend, when he died. Molly, you say this man has no friends, and he _does_ – he has you. You can do better than him, you know that.”

Molly wouldn’t believe him, not just yet – Bond stayed anyway, let her exhaust herself, looked after her as she recovered from the heartbreak of losing somebody she’d never come close to having.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello could you write some bondlock where John and/or Sherlock are hurt/unable to defend themselves and are the victims of a homophobic attack but then Bond and Q walk past hand-in-hand and see whats happening and help out?? Thanks - your blog is awesome btw!! - sherlockedwithtea

It was simple maths.

Sherlock and John were both combat trained. Sherlock could handle maybe three or four at once, John only two or three given the damage to his shoulder which had never recovered full dexterity. Ergo, up to approximately seven people, and the pair could defend themselves.

A gang of eleven, and they were completely overwhelmed. Both fought valiantly; the pair were dragged deeper into a side-street, Sherlock giving a sudden yell as his rib snapped under a kick, John calling out for him.

John could taste blood; bloodied nose, possible split lip. The hail of homophobic comments was the truly remarkable aspect; John had never heard so many slurs in one go in his life. He glanced over, his boyfriend bleeding, Sherlock’s fight becoming uncoordinated and sloppy, blood over his face.

In retrospect, neither John nor Sherlock really knew what happened. In a terrifyingly abrupt series of movements, there were fewer of them. With only two left, John was able to fight back more efficiently; a series of war cries, he started fighting his way over to Sherlock.

For the most bizarre of moments, John saw double. Sherlock, lying bleeding, barely able to fight. Sherlock, executing a series of practised and extraordinarily adept martial arts movements that were pulling off the gang members one by one.

“ _Q?_ ” he yelled suddenly, punching one of the bastards in the stomach, dropping to Sherlock’s side as the man calmed, hand held over his stomach, blood spilling between his fingers. John felt a tinge of panic, before instinct took over, examining the thin stab wound to the side of Sherlock’s stomach.

John didn’t know they managed it, but within moments, six of the eleven were trussed up in the alley, most of them looking fairly battered. The others ran, as fast as they could manage. “Be warned,” Bond said, without preamble, in a tone of utter lethality. “My boyfriend and I will be watching. If you plan to attack any others, we will find you, and this will look childish in comparison.”

He turned away without further words, hands seeking Q. “You alright?” Q asked lightly, flushed, unaccustomed to the level of adrenaline thrumming in his fingers. He wanted to _kill_ them.

“Fine,” Bond replied. Q could tell that tone. Bond did not suffer bigots. He took any homophobic attacks as an indirect threat to Q; he would become possessive now, defensive, would watch Q like a hawk until he calmed down. Q nodded, kissed him lightly, smirking at the looks of absolute shock on the kids tied at their feet.

“Sherlock? John?”

“Ambulance,” John rasped out, as Sherlock’s hands batted pointlessly at him, trying to express that he was _absolutely_ fine, despite bleeding copiously. “What you guys even _doing_ here?”

“Luck,” Q muttered, as Bond tapped through to MI6; there was no point working for a high-end organisation if they couldn’t abuse the resources. Bond alerted that they needed a police presence over a hate crime, and an ambulance. “Will he be alright?”

John nodded, breathing stuttered. “Fine. Superficial, but I can’t deal with it here. He’ll be fine, Q,” John repeated; Q watched his brother bleed, terrified at the thought of having arrived another minute later, giving these bastards the chance to stab deeper, take his _brother_.

Bond slipped a hand into Q’s, comforting, as they waited for the wail of sirens to approach. It would be alright.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi :) If you take prompt, i have one idea maybe one fic about Q who watch or assist at the “suicide” of Sherlock and James was with Q at this moment maybe they watch together the sucide or it’s happens that they are in the city in this moment. And deal after that, maybe Bond tries to comfort Q who is still crying and can’t believe it. And James know Sherlock before the fall because Q & James had see Sherlock & John at Baker Street. Thanks You So Much in advance - tigrasevaddict

Q was staring at his phone, a very strange expression on his face. “Q?” Bond asked; he had come down to Q-branch to keep his partner company, stumbling in on a disturbed-looking Q. “What’s wrong?”

“I think…” Q managed, words feeling oddly heavy in his mouth. “I think my brother is going to kill himself.”

-

Q brought up the real-time footage outside Barts, with enough time to see Sherlock standing, on the phone; Q couldn’t override it remotely, Sherlock’s phone modified with layers of encryption. Q found another view, manipulating a camera around to capture John Watson, Q messaging Mycroft with his other hand.

_Odd message from Sherlock. Know anything? - Q_

Sherlock had sent a text, telling Q he loved him, that he was sorry. Q flashed back abruptly to being in his teens, receiving a near-identical message from his heavy drug-addicted elder sibling, several hours before Mycroft found him, overdosed, in an abandoned flat.

There were no possible words to capture the feeling of watching Sherlock – Q’s brother, Bond’s friend – plummet to his death outside St Barts.

-

“What just…?”

Q was terrifyingly, frozenly still, for a long while.

He moved very, very slowly, tapping into St Barts Emergency Unit, reading the incoming computer reports. A few cursory scans were enough to establish that Sherlock had been declared dead on arrival. Bond read over his shoulder, feeling more confused than anything else; this had happened so, blindingly fast.

Q’s phone rang; he picked it up with a hand that had just started shaking. “Myc?” he asked, voice splintered, suddenly raw; the simple use of a nickname was indicative of Q’s state. “Sherlock’s dead, he just killed himself.”

-

“I’m so sorry,” Bond murmured, as tears tracked silently down Q’s cheeks. Q still hadn’t moved, practically paralysed. Bond reached out, a gentle hand on Q’s arm, letting the younger man fall onto him. “I’m sorry…”

Q shook his head, disbelief and shock and pain clouding rationality. “Jesus _fuck_ ,” he swore in a choked voice, because he had no other words left.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> * runs around in a deliriously happy fashion * you destroyed me with the perfectedness of the last fills of my prompts :] thank you! I have yet another: Q helps out his brother Sherlock by enlisting James’s help to make John jealous enough to admit to being gay for Sherlock. James has lots of fun pretending to be in a relationship with Sherlock. (maybe they get along splendidly because James uses the same deduction techniques in a lesser fashion as a spy?) :] hehehehehe, thanks! :] - blueskycloud9

“Who’s this?” John asked, voice registering almost numbing shock. Sherlock was angularly sprawled over the sofa, legs lying in the lap of a well-built, exceptionally gorgeous man.

Sherlock smiled distantly. “Evening, John. Allow me to introduce James,” he said, waving at Bond; Bond raised an eyebrow, mouth crooked in a smile. John smiled awkwardly, mug of tea in hand.

The axe fell.

“… my boyfriend.”

-

Q watched events unfold with hysterical joy; Sherlock had attempted, in his usual inept manner, to snare Doctor John Watson. Q really had never thought he’d see the day that his elder brother came to him for relationship advice. Far less the day when his _own_ boyfriend masqueraded as his elder brother’s boyfriend to force another man out of the closet to become afore-mentioned elder brother’s boyfriend.

Really, the entire debacle belonged in a soap opera. Or comedy sketch. Whichever, it was still bizarre.

On the bright side, Bond was enjoying himself; while he freely admitted that Sherlock was an insufferable arse, they matched one another on a number of levels. They could conduct a conversation without killing one another, for a start. Bond was the first martial artist to pose anything of a challenge to Sherlock for _years_ , while Bond enjoyed challenging Sherlock’s ability to read people and situations. Bond could grasp the human elements far better.

John watched all of it in absolute horror. Q estimated no more than four days before he buckled.

-

He lasted two.

-

“I thought you were dating Q?” John asked coldly, eyeing Bond with unusual suspicion. Bond’s fingers played in Sherlock’s hair, unwittingly imitating how he behaved with Q; Q snarled at the computer screen, John’s eyes narrowed further, Sherlock putting up with the unwanted contact to prove the point to John.

Bond smiled gently. “The situation developed,” he said ambiguously; John’s eyebrows receded further.

_James, make your exit – the good doctor is inches from implosion, and I somewhat empathise._

Bond restrained a snort with difficulty, hoisting himself away from Sherlock.

Q shrieked in his ear, John snarled, Sherlock stiffened in shock: Bond kissed Sherlock tenderly, tongue dancing over Sherlock’s teeth.

“Good evening,” Bond said, smiling at Sherlock, nodding at John. Q snarled lividly in his ear, listing the various sexual and non-sexual punishments Q was intending to devise for Bond when he came within range.

Bond didn’t even make it out the building before he heard the fallout upstairs; his gamble had paid off, even if Q was livid. _Successful mission. Less successful relationship. You just kissed my elder brother. Get home. Now._

His tone was sharp; Bond winced. This was not going to end well.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, love your writing it is really brilliant. Here is my Prompt. Could you write 00Q, where Q has a six siblings, you can use Mycroft and Sherlock if you want for two of them or make them all up. James meets them all separately after him and Q start dating and is shocked by how different they all are, but is even more shocked when he finally see all of them together :D – acelily

Victoria was the first of Q’s siblings that Bond properly met. He didn’t actually realise that she had a damn thing to do with Q, initially – but then, he didn’t exactly see it coming.

“ _Bollocks_ ,” Q cursed in his ear. “Bond, withdraw. Right now.”

“Target has been sighted and locked,” Bond hissed back; he had been waiting _days_ for this chance. He had only just established a visual link with HQ, routing the images of ‘V’ back to Q. He had taken one look at them, and cursed violently. “Q, I’ll lose her.”

“That’s rather what I’m suggesting. Not our target. Repeat, withdraw. I’ll be rather distressed if you decide to shoot my little sister.”

Bond swore in every language he knew, and did as he was told.

-

Victoria went under ‘V’, emulating her older brother, who she happened to adore. She was seven years younger than Q, had – through some perverse quirk – ended up spending the most time with Q through her life.

Once matters had been cleaned up, Bond found he rather liked her. Quite clever, startlingly naïve, very beautiful; she had managed to get herself mixed up in some quite unpleasant business, hence her presence at a business dinner mostly consisting of known felons.

Meanwhile Ben, Q’s twin, literally _was_ a known felon. He and Q had spent most of their twenty-six years of life ignoring one another. Ben had fallen into a horrendous drug habit – aided and abetted by their elder brother – and his life had rapidly spiralled out of control. He was serving an extended sentence for GBH. Bond had very little interest in meeting him.

Then, of course, there was Sherlock. The mercurial whirlwind of the collection, the destructive influence. The third eldest, older than Q and Ben by five and a half years, enigmatic and brilliant and tangibly unstable, lethal. Sherlock saw everything and understood nothing.

He wrought chaos, and lacked the capacity to understand what he’d done. He didn’t speak to most of his family. He only endured Mycroft, because Mycroft was the only person who could get through to him.

Victoria had no conscious memory of him. She was three when Sherlock fell deeply into his cocaine habit, and Mycroft – by then in his early twenties – had all but taken over their family. Sherlock was banned from seeing his sister. By the time he was clean, and Mycroft allowed him access, Sherlock had lost the will to seek her out.

Mycroft was the head of the family, without question. He knew everything. When the Holmes parents left, then died, Mycroft was placed to take care of all of them, in the dispassionate and clinical way he knew so well. He knew every facet of his sibling’s lives, and was involved in nothing.

They were a dizzying collection of people. Not to mention Q’s other sister, Louisa, a classical opera singer who – through some strange coincidence – Bond had actually seen perform, once.

Q was overwhelmingly quiet, and equal to Mycroft or Sherlock in simple intelligence. He was devoid of many flaws that had attacked his siblings, through more luck than judgement. He was beautiful, and brilliant, and shone against the deranged collection of human beings that went under the same surname.

Comparing like with like, Bond couldn’t possibly deny that Q was, quite entirely, perfect.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I worship the ground you walk on for your great writing skills. Can you do one where James and Q got into a big fight that causes Q to run out of their flat, in tears, and goes to Sherlock, his older brother, for comfort. But later on James realizes his mistake and goes to 221B to talk to Q only to meet Sherlock, who James has heard of but never met before, and of course Sherlock doesn’t like James doesn’t let him see Q. But in the end James and Q do make up. - anon

The man in the door of 221B Baker Street looked him up and down, and sighed. “ _Sherlock_ ,” he yelled up the stairs; an elderly lady popped her out of her door, the man apologetically telling her they had an unexpected guest. She retreated.

Bond, and the stranger he knew to be Doctor John Watson, waited in the hall for Sherlock to emerge.

The thin, angular man who stalked down the stairs was similar in Q in several visible respects, their family resemblance evident. He reached the bottom of the stairs, an exchanged look with John sending the other returning up to their flat.

Sherlock watched him with evident distrust, dislike. “You are, presumably, 007?” he asked in a low, velvet tone, edged with iron.

Bond blinked. “Where is he?” he asked simply, eyes darting up to the flat.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “He has no wish to see you, and I entirely agree with his decision,” he said flatly. “I have an instinctive, immense dislike of those who harm my younger brother. You will leave, _now_.”

“I came to apologise,” Bond said, with lethal quiet. Sherlock Holmes had no business in _his_ relationship; he needed to see Q, did not need to be impeded by his keeper. He attempted to circumnavigate Sherlock.

Thus ensued one of the more _interesting_ fights of Bond’s experience.

Mostly, he fought trained assassins, trained killers; the training was relatively consistent, and the techniques were usually predicatble, even in the more erratic portions. It went along a certain code, expected patterns.

Sherlock had nothing but experience. He was cold and dispassionate; a blend of truly perfect technical expertise, and the unpredictability born of street fights and boxing matches with people high, or drunk, or running on adrenaline.

He was surprisingly formidable.

“’Lock, stop it,” asked a quiet voice from the top of the stairs.

Bond’s attention snapped upwards; Sherlock took the distraction, flooring Bond for the first time in _years_. Bond made several notes to himself concerning returning to training in street fighting and martial arts, when he went back to MI6 in the morning.

For now, he looked up at Q, staying very still in the hope of not aggravating Sherlock further. Q looked a total wreck; he had left their flat in less than a good state, wound up at Sherlock’s in the middle of the night, essentially collapsing on the mercy of his over-defensive brother, who would _definitely_ look after him.

Sherlock moved from Bond, heading up a few steps, effectively blocking Bond’s path to his partner. “I’m sorry, Q,” Bond said slowly, watching his lover with true sadness, a true apology. “Just… let me come up, let me talk to you.”

Q looked down at Bond, past his brother, his implausible and impromptu guardian. Sherlock looked like wrath incarnate, furious and immediate and murderous; Bond realised he had come across somebody far more frightening than anybody he’d known before. Sherlock Holmes would rip the world apart for his brother.

“Okay,” Q said quietly. “Sherlock?”

 “I’ll stay if you want,” the man replied neutrally. Q just nodded, vanishing into 221B, Sherlock following quickly.

Bond, with a feeling of sheer trepidation, followed.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amazing writer, could you do a Bondlock story where James and Sherlock get along (platonically) very well? (To Watson and Q’s horror). Have fun! - anon

Quite honestly, Q was pretty certain Bond and Sherlock would want to kill one another in a matter of moments. They were vastly divergent personalities, and in any case, Sherlock condemned anybody with a lower IQ than himself which really, ruled out most people.

But not, it would seem, James Bond.

Q was beginning to panic. Bond was an immortal flirt; consciously or not, his posture had shifted in towards Sherlock, inches away from making first skin contact. Probably a hand on the lower arm, taking the relationship out of the intangibilities of simple flirting and into true connection.

John just felt vaguely nauseous. Bond was, essentially, an upscale version of himself. Ex-army, blond, muscled, gunshot wound in shoulder. He just happened to be taller, better-looking, better- _everything_.

They were out at dinner, double-date. John and Q were therefore left opposite one another, both too busy worrying about their partners to concentrate on any real conversation of their own

John, too, was watching Bond’s hand move towards Sherlock’s arm, with the rising sense that he’d chop it off if it got any closer.

“Bond, can I have a word?” Q asked, his nerve finally breaking.

Bond, thwarted in his attempts to move towards Sherlock, looked mildly surprised. He nodded, standing, excusing himself lightly from the conversation with Sherlock – who looked, to both John and Q’s absolute _fury_ – entirely smug.

“You were _flirting_ ,” said two people, practically in unison.

Two other people simply blinked.

“I didn’t know I had the requisite skills to ‘flirt’”/“No. That was a _polite conversation_.”

“Polite? You’ve not been _‘polite’_ in all the time I’ve known you, unless you have an ulterior motive!” / “Of course you have the bloody ‘skills’, you wanker!”

“… This is insane, you are completely _paranoid_ …”/”Do I have to _constantly_ reaffirm that my affections focus solely…”

“You’re flirting with my _brother_.” / “You’re flirting with your _brother’s boyfriend_.”

Sherlock and Bond gave deep, tortured sighs. Q and John very narrowly restrained themselves from _slapping_ their requisite partners. “We are going back in there, and you are going to behave,” Q hissed, looking like rather pissed-off kitten. Bond nodded seriously, restraining the smirk.

At the table, Sherlock just rolled his eyes, kissed John deeply, and hoped that would do by way of an apology until they got home.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m loving the writing! I blame this 00Q prompt idea on the idea of Q being a closet musician (plus other music based fills) but he’s not the typical pianist. He plays those pieces but also dabbles in everything from 50s rock and movie scores (would love the Cloud Atlas sextet for that) to folk a la Mumford and Sons (and maybe plays with Mycroft or Sherlock to run with the idea of them being family). So what if Bond finds him playing? Fluffy, cute and romantic please? - anon

“What is that?” Bond asked, intrigued; Q had settled at their piano, was now playing a dextrous piece that didn’t quite sound whole, but was nonetheless beautiful.

Q looked up, unfazed by Bond watching him. “It’s called the Cloud Atlas Sextet,” he said gently, caressing arpeggios with practised fingers, falling to a too-abrupt stop. “It’s for my mother. Sherlock, Myc and I have an annual truce over the Holmes concert; we’ve done it since we were small. Our ‘group piece’ is this; I’m on piano – we’re missing a few parts, so the piano covers some of the smaller instruments – Sherlock on violin, Mycroft on oboe. Mummy will probably join in on the flute for this one, she loves this piece. One of the characters in the film looks like me, actually.”

Very little in that statement gave Bond pause, barring one point: “Mycroft Holmes plays the oboe?” he asked, mind stuttering as he envisioned the straight-laced politician with an _oboe_.

Q rolled his eyes, smiling slightly. “I’ll ask if you can come,” he promised. “John came last year, it’s only fair…”

Bond kissed him deeply, and Q smiled, breaking off into a trilling “Flight of the Bumblebee” with great aplomb.

-

Q was in a suit, which quite frankly, made the evening worthwhile either way.

Bond, John Watson, and the other Holmeses ended up holding a form of semi-formal court for the evening, punctuated by the various Holmes family members getting involved in creation of music, of some respect.

The evening was brilliant. Mycroft opened with the clarinet solo of ‘Rhapsody in Blue’, assisted by Q, who acted as facilitator for _everybody_ – when Mrs Holmes started singing jazz solos near midnight, Q remained by the piano, playing the accompaniment. Piano accompanying is perhaps the hardest thing in the world; being the background, restraining the urge to take flight into music and instead being the backdrop for somebody else.

As everybody grew drunker, the Holmes brothers took requests, culminating in one of the most wonderful, and truly bizarre, experiences of James Bond’s life: the Holmes brothers, their parents, John Watson and – most impressively – himself, singing Bohemian Rhapsody.

John Watson had a rather strong falsetto, it seemed. Mycroft was a steady, tranquil bass. Sherlock and Q ranged through baritone to tenor with apparent ease, while Mrs Holmes bore the brunt of the higher harmonies.

Bond hadn’t sung anything in approximately nine years, by his best estimations. He found himself rather enjoying it. Q shot him looks of childish delight, enjoyment, throughout the evening.

The Holmes brothers hated each other on principle, really. Shadows of it shone through, from moment to moment, particularly near the start of the evening; Mycroft and Sherlock were particularly antagonistic, but the truce held.

“We’ll be seeing you both at Christmas then, hmm?” Mrs Holmes opined the next morning, Q nestled exhaustedly by Bond on the sofa in their comfortable living room.

Q craned round to look at Bond, grinning outright at his expression. “He’ll be singing carols with us,” he teased, giggling, Bond leaning down to kiss him lightly while Mrs Holmes watched with polite amusement.

“He’s good for you,” she told Q later, with a wink.

Q glanced out the door, where Bond was waiting for him. He remembered Bond’s voice, the sparkle, the way the agent had let go just for him. The Holmes family were not renowned for acceptance, even tolerance to a degree, not of those with secrets or pretences – both of which Bond had in spades.

For Q, he’d given them up.

“Yes, he is,” he said softly, turning back to mother. “Love you, Mummy. I’ll be seeing you soon.”

She kissed his forehead. “Be safe,” she said seriously; Q nodded turned to go, laughing at her parting words: “And practise your arpeggios, you’re getting sloppy, darling.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to offer a prompt idea! After the events of Skyfall Q is being hit by enough self doubt/low confidence to stock a small army. But cue support via the troops in Bond (00Q), Sherlock & Mycroft (I love the idea of Q being their brother), John, M, Eve, Tanner and maybe even Molly (she could be his neighbor or a contact?). I just want Q getting support, care and love from the people who know and love him best. Loving the fills too! - anon

_221B. Bring 007. – SH_

It could never be said that Sherlock minced his words, Q mused, staring dully at the text message before glancing back up to a screen full of numbers and letters, none of which seemed to be cohering. Nothing had been, since Skyfall

Q tapped a key to reply, prepared to inform Sherlock that – unlike some – he had a real job. One that didn’t allow him to leave at a moment’s notice.

Eve swung around the doorframe, with a light smile. “You have the day off, M’s orders,” she told him, a glint in her eyes that boded badly. “He told me to tell you that you’re barred from the premises for the next twenty-four hours.

“What?” Q asked wearily, watching Eve unhappily. “I have…”

“Out, or I’ll throw you out myself,” she warned. “Tanner revoked your security clearance himself, manually altered the front turnstiles.”

“I’m going to kill you all,” Q snapped without real force, grabbing his bag and stuffing a laptop into it; he could still tap into MI6 workings from outside the building, after all.

He only discovered that R had tampered with the damn thing a lot later, by which point it was far too late.

Bond met him outside the entrance of the building, extending a hand towards Q; Q, who was still getting more used to public displays of affection around Bond, rolled his eyes as he slid a hand into his lover’s. “So go on. What’s all this in aid of?” Q asked, letting Bond lead him into a waiting car.

“You’ve been a miserable bastard; we’re trying to help,” Bond replied succinctly, as the car sped through London streets, towards Baker Street.

Q blinked at him. “We?”

Bond’s smirk was enough make Q feel slightly murderous, as the man simply nodded. The car pulled up, Bond reaching for the handle to steer Q out of the door; Bond thanked their MI6 driver, and was met by John at the door. “Thank god, Sherlock’s getting more irritable by the second,” he said, disappearing into the door.

“Hello there, dear,” Mrs Hudson cooed at Q; Q raised a hand in greeting, Bond’s hand on the small of his back moving him up the stairs.

Sherlock was draped over his chair, legs at odd angles, violin dangling from his grip. “I did wonder if you’d ever deign to arrive,” he drawled, glancing over his shoulder with faint disdain. “This is for your benefit, you know.”

“ _What_ is?” Q asked.

He could smell tea. Lots of tea. He glanced around, craning his head towards the kitchen.

Bond was still smirking. “You’ve been miserable, so we’re throwing you a tea party,” he said, shaking his head in semi-disbelief. “I don’t know how I ended up being sucked into this.”

Q smiled despite himself. “Who…?”

“ _Mycroft_ ,” said Sherlock, Bond and John in absolute unison. Sherlock filled the rest: “He worried. Decided that tea was appropriate. I believe there is an inherent assumption that having a core of people who ostensibly care for you would be positive for your self esteem.”

Q snorted at the irony of it all. A collection of the most emotionally inept people in the known world had clubbed together, and decided that _tea_ was the best course of action in trying to convince Q – who honestly believed it was his fault that the previous M had died – that he was a worthwhile human being.

Misguided, yes.

Q couldn’t quite believe that it was already helping.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt you filled for me was utterly perfect! Thank you. I was hoping to ask for another? M was Mummy Holmes. She wasn’t close with her kids except maybe Mycroft? It could be why Sherlock hates the government (jealousy over her love of the 00s). No one knew she even had kids and Q was fine with that (or so he claimed). It’s been a while since Skyfall, he and Bond have been together for a while. Somehow Bond finds out. Bond’s reaction and maybe Q finally dealing with M’s death. – dapperelijah

“He’s your _brother_ , Q. Family…”

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ get magnanimous about the role of family,” Q screamed back, cutting over Bond’s irate little monologue. Sherlock – Q’s brother – had killed himself, a mere handful of days ago. Thrown himself off the roof of a building. Q was refusing to attend the funeral. “You have no idea how my family works, worked, whatever.”

Q had only thrown out sporadic, bitter comments about his family. His mother, who was never there. His eldest brother, a carbon copy of their mother. His other sibling, who was unstable and jealous and grew to hate every aspect of their mother, and consequently Mycroft. A family that worked on jealousy and contempt and hatred and resentment.

“He’s dead, Q. It isn’t a case of love or hate, it’s paying respect to somebody you grew up with,” Bond pointed out.

Q let out a sharp growl. “Mummy’s funeral was the only one I’ve been to since my father died,” he said, with feral quiet. “I didn’t want to go then, either. I dislike funerals. Especially when they aren’t worthy of a great deal of ‘respect’, in my eyes.”

“You went to M’s,” Bond pointed out. “You respected her…”

“I went because I was expected to as a branch head, not because I had any interest in the funeral. Sherlock didn’t go,” Q said petulantly; Mycroft had attended, obviously, looking perfectly turned-out and suitably in mourning. Not depressed, not upset – merely in mourning. It was a bizarre thing, like watching the mask of an emotion without any true depth.

Bond was still struggling. “You said you’d only been to one…”

“Oh for god’s sake James, do catch up,” Q snapped irritably. “M was my mother. Obviously. Superb at her job, yes, but I didn’t precisely ‘respect’ her, after neglecting most of her family throughout her life.”

Really, it was impossible to know what to make of that. Bond hadn’t seen it coming, even slightly.

“M is your _mother_?” he repeated, finding it difficult to reconcile the mad battleaxe who’d run MI6 with the young man in front of him. “Jesus, Q.”

Q let out an unkind laugh. “Tell me about it. You knew her better than I did,” he commented bitterly, before deflating a little, anger near-spent.

His eyes slid shut, breathing returning to something near normal as Bond moved closer, reaching out. “I’m sorry,” Bond murmured. “I didn’t know.”

“That much, I gathered,” Q returned, thankfully with a little less vitriol. He sighed, opening his eyes to fix on his lover. “James, I don’t want to go.”

“Then don’t,” Bond assured him, extending his arms out; Q pitched forward and out of his chair, landing to sprawl over Bond’s lap, curled up protectively in Bond’s arms while Bond brushed kisses in his hair, resolving to never let the young man _ever_ feel neglected again.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Bond are lovers. John’s learned to live with that (thought the sting is still there). Q, not quite. Then, Bond eventually sits him down for a chat. – anon

The Holmes siblings had never really recovered from Bond and Sherlock finding one another.

Mycroft and Sherlock didn’t speak because Mycroft had forced Sherlock into rehab. Mycroft and Q didn’t speak because Mycroft had been desperate for Q to stay away from the government, which he’d ignored. Q and Sherlock now didn’t speak because Sherlock had damn well _stolen_ James Bond, out from under Q’s nose.

John Watson had taken it surprisingly well, given that Sherlock had shown _no_ interest in any form of relationship, before abruptly choosing a blond ex-army type with a gunshot wound in his shoulder. It seemed a little off.

They continued for a handful of months. John retaliated with passive-aggressive attempts to make Sherlock eat more, while Q made Bond’s life maliciously harder; never enough to kill him, but enough to mean he was perpetually late.

Bond couldn’t fail to notice. Really, that was the point.

“You’re angry with me,” Bond said simply, smiling slightly as he settled in the chair opposite his Quartermaster. “What did I do to you this time?”

Q raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be absurd,” he said drily. “I wouldn’t be that petty.”

Bond snorted. “Liar. So, let me think – I’ve been exemplary on my missions, as far as I’m capable. I haven’t done anything that directly concerns you. Barring, of course, my relationship with your brother…” Q’s eyes darted up for a fractional second, before descending again. “ _Ah_. That explains it. Alright – is this the overprotective sibling speech, or…?”

“Oh, fuck off Bond,” Q snapped, growling faintly to himself as he ran a hand through his hair. “It’s nothing to do with that.”

“Then jealousy?” Bond asked astutely; his theory was confirmed by Q’s absolutely _lethal_ glare. “Oh, Q. You’re jealous of me dating your brother?”

Q’s body shuddered in a cross little vibration. “Bond, I’m not… _jealous_ is the wrong word, but Sherlock should be with John, everybody knows that, you don’t make any sense with him, and you…

“I genuinely care about Sherlock,” Bond said levelly, his gaze merciless as he watched Q. “If you were interested, you should have said. I’m with Sherlock, now. I don’t intend to leave him any time soon.”

Q nodded slightly, expression faintly sad. “If I’d asked… before you met Sherlock, I mean… would you and I have…?”

“Yes,” Bond said immediately, blue eyes bright. “Without a doubt.”

Q’s breath shuddered slightly on the exhale. He nodded slightly. Bond didn’t say another word, and gently shut the door behind him when he walked out.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello my dear! I’m not going to post the full prompt, because it’s very long, but I’ve filled it - basic premise is that Q and Sherlock are in a relationship (NOT brothers), and Scotland Yard continually underestimate Sherlock’s emotional capabilities.
> 
> I hope you like it, thank you for a great prompt, and kudos to you for giving me the longest prompt ever :) Hope you like it. Take care. Jen.

“Sherlock?”

R sounded frantic and terrified, and Sherlock was immediately tense. “R? What’s happened? Are you alright?” he asked quickly. John always found it odd that Sherlock called R by his coded initial; Sherlock, however, appreciated it for what it was. It was his new identity, it shaped him. A name was a name, it didn’t _matter_ , and it was safer for everybody if he remained technically ‘nameless’.

R whimpered. “Help me,” he managed, and the connection faded out

“I have to go,” Sherlock told Lestrade, quite simply. Lestrade was livid; the case required Sherlock’s expertise, and Sherlock was never erratic around his cases. He didn’t stay long enough for Lestrade to properly voice his many objections, calling a cab, ignoring the voices behind him.

John rolled his eyes, and shrugged. “He does that,” John said, with a shrug. “I’ll call him, hopefully…”

“He wants me to consult him, and is this bloody erratic – how the hell am I supposed to keep him in work, like this?”

“Talk to him in the morning,” John advised, with a slight shrug. “I’ll get in touch if there’s something properly wrong, alright?”

-

Sherlock, and the man who would come to be known as R, as Q, had been together since university; they knew one another incredibly well, were very happy together, and were very quiet about their relationship. When R entered MI6, they decided that for safety, they should no longer live together; a sensible precaution, but not easy for either party.

R was no longer R. He was Q. Sherlock told John this as a perfunctory piece of information that supposedly wouldn’t be of any concern. John now reframed R – Q – in his head again, and renamed him. This would never be easy for him. John had no idea how Sherlock was managing it.

He had made his way back to 221B, to find Sherlock curled around the bandaged, dilapidated form of the man who was now called ‘Q’. John had met him a few times; they usually went back to R’s – Q’s – flat, but given that they suspected a leak, it was safest for Q to be elsewhere.

“Evening, John,” Q said tiredly. “Sorry to intrude. My place of work was bombed. My boss, and four of my colleagues, died. Three others are in hospital. I was discharged because of stubbornness and Sherlock. If you have no objections, I need to stay here.”

John shrugged. It wasn’t his concern, really.

_Anything from Sherlock? – GL_

John put away the phone. It could wait. Sherlock twisted around his lover with a fiercely protective posture, and Q leaned exhaustedly on Sherlock’s shoulder, trying to sleep a little, crying expressionlessly.

John left them alone.

-

Lestrade arrived, with all the court jesters, the next morning; Mrs Hudson let them in, and John tried to stall them before they all started yelling and waking up the pair entwined on the sofa.

They had fallen asleep, given that Q was in a lot of pain, and didn’t want to move having found a comfortable position. Q was carefully clinging to every part of Sherlock he could reach, sprawling bruises, burns, cuts peppering his thin body.

Sherlock’s cheek leant on the top of Q’s head, sleeping; John should have studied him further, would have noticed that he was long since awake. “You need to leave,” John hissed at the three in the doorway.

“Who the hell’s that?” Anderson asked, sounding suspicious; John had the uncomfortable feeling that he was seeing the burns, putting two and two together, and arriving at something nasty.

“That’s Sherlock’s partner,” John told them, livid. “He was in a serious accident yesterday. Sherlock will check in with you later, now get the _hell out of here_.”

“Isn’t he…?”

“Asexual? No. A complete wanker? Yes, but not all the time,” John told them, pushing them out into the hallway, shutting the door carefully behind him. “Seriously. You can talk to him _later.”_

“Is he, Sherlock’s partner mean… is he ok? Those were nasty injuries,” Donovan asked, her voice surprisingly careful. John looked at her like she was a complete stranger, and nodded; Q would be fine, yes, eventually. It would heal.

“I’ll call in later,” Lestrade said, eyes still darting into the room, to the implausible sight of Sherlock Holmes, sleeping with his partner, looking young and happy. “I’m sorry, John.”

John shrugged, and bid them a relatively curt goodbye. He slipped back into 221B, to find Sherlock watching him, eagle-eyed, careful. Sherlock nodded his thanks, while Q slept. John shrugged. He knew Sherlock wasn’t a complete bastard – there was no reason not to tell others.

Q snuffled slightly, and shuffled against Sherlock’s body. Sherlock hushed him with bizarre tenderness, and kissed Q on the crown of his head.

John smiled, and went to make tea.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t know you wrote Molly otherwise I would’ve requested this ages ago: It’s from a gif set that I can’t seem to find but the premise was that Molly is the Judy Dench M’s daughter. Molly’s very happy to stay out of the lime light and not be a hassle but M feels that with all the Moriarty business that she needs a bodyguard so she assigns the best, 007, to look after her. Only older brother feelings from Bond please. – runemarks

“Bond, I have a slightly different form of assignment for you,” M said simply, pushing a file towards the agent. Bond picked it up, reading through the details, nodding his simple understanding.

Bodyguard duty. Not the most exciting of assignments, but certainly better than kicking back in the UK for the indefinite future. The woman in the photos looked sweet enough, was probably harmless.

“What’s the catch?” he asked calmly, closing the file and fixing M with a look. Thankfully, she didn’t try to insult his intelligence by denying that there was a catch.

M smiled thinly. “She’s my daughter.”

Fuck.

-

“I, erm…”

Molly Hooper was still having problems forming coherent sentences without abandoning them midway through. Bond was in shock; he had never imagined she would be _so little_ like M herself. Presumably took after her father, whoever he was.

Bond smiled benevolently, absentmindedly wondering if that would scare her even further.  “I’m only here because of the problems with James Moriarty,” Bond explained, tone calm and kind. “Given what appears to have happened with Sherlock Holmes…”

Molly’s smile became decidedly less certain, and Bond crooked an eyebrow. “With his…” she started, hands worrying in the air around her. “Death, I mean.”

Bond nodded slowly, a slight smile creeping over his face. She was very endearing, if a little skittish. “Precisely,” he said, deigning not to disclose the intelligence MI6 had acquired that indicated that Sherlock was very much alive. “Until we are certain that James Moriarty is not a threat, I will be keeping you from harm.”

Molly laughed a little. “I work in a morgue, not much danger there, unless there’s a zombie invasion,” she said, still giggling. Her face abruptly fell. “Not that I meant…”

“Don’t worry,” Bond laughed, growing more fond of her by the moment. “I know what you meant. This does, of course, mean that I’ll need to stay at your flat?”

Molly’s eyes widened, and she nodded, glancing up and down Bond’s body very unsubtly. “That’s…” she started, before clearing her throat. “That’s fine, no problem. I have the sofa, or…”

“That’ll do me nicely,” Bond interrupted, before she could bury herself in words again. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms Hooper,” he said, extending a hand towards her.

She blushed, shook his hand. “Call me Molly.”


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some John/Q??? - anon

“Bond, what is it?” Q asked, with a slight sigh. John watched, with a thin smirk painted on his lips. “You what?! Bond, that was a prototype, I had tests to conduct when you brought it back, you inept bastard…”

Naturally, that happened to be the moment John’s mobile rang too. “Sherlock?” he asked wearily, exchanging a glance with Q. “No. I am on a date… that’s not my problem, you should have thought about…”

Q hung up, tossing the phone haphazardly onto the coffee table. After a further few minutes of negotiation, John did the same.

“They’re impossible,” Q said helplessly, gesturing at their phones. “Absolutely impossible.”

“At least mine isn’t after me,” John teased, watching his boyfriend grab at a glass of wine.

“If you really believe that, your naivety is astounding,” Q commented drily, and took several large gulps of the rather lovely Merlot. John blinked slightly at the thought of Sherlock having any sexual inclinations, and let Q rest his head on his shoulder as they watched some new ITV drama.

Both sat in companionable silence for a while. “Do you really think Sherlock wants me?” John asked, almost nervous at what the response would be. Q giggled unkindly.

“Yes, you idiot. I know my brother, and he’s a long way from subtle. He’s barely speaking to me, now we’re together,” Q snorted, fingers tightening in John’s jumper. He couldn’t help but feel possessive; Sherlock was older, could be construed as better-looking, often more intelligent. He had the social skills of a dying platypus at a dinner party, but he had known John a while, and wanted the good doctor.

Sherlock would never forgive Q for getting there first. For seeing what a good thing Sherlock had, and managing to take it from him. Or so Sherlock said.

“If he asked, would you?” Q asked, after a while, as John’s hand rested on his shoulder, keeping Q curled against him.

John let himself think about it for a moment; there was no way of lying to Holmes brothers. “No. I don’t think I would,” he said finally. Q nodded, unable to quell the odd sense of sadness.

It would have to be enough.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello again ;o) Because I love your writting, here´s another prompt: An enemy wants to kidnap Q, only their agents have the wrong info and get Sherlock instead. I´d like to see bamf Q and Bond to to rescue as a team; in my headcanon Sherlock´s still not good with people but he loves his brothers dearly (and they love him back), so warm brothers´ bond would be great instead of the usual snipy one (as shown in the series). Pretty please? ;o)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm relatively certain I already posted this - if I have, please let me know!! Jen.

“Bond, I have a mission for you,” Q told him; he looked and sounded tangibly worried, quite unusually. “This is urgent. Top priority. I have no clearance whatsoever, but you and I are doing this, and I’m afraid there is no way of convincing me otherwise.”

“… slow down. What’s happened?”

Q ran a hand through his hair, eyes wide. “My brother.”

-

Their identities had been confused. The kidnappers were under the misguided impression that Sherlock was Q; they would attempt to extract information that Sherlock wouldn’t have, and Sherlock did not suffer misinformed idiots well.

Q just hoped they reached Sherlock, before the kidnappers got irritated and started escalating the violence out of control.

-

Q had only a limited amount of field experience. This didn’t seem to be a deterrent. He strapped himself up to a collection of guns and explosives, and prepared to storm the building with Bond.

It was utterly terrifying. Q managed to kill six people in slightly less than five minutes, and seemed a very long way from repentant about it. “Sherlock,” he gasped, as they slammed through into the final room, Bond keeping them guarded from any ambush.

Bond covered the door, as Q dropped in front of his elder brother. “Sherlock?” he asked quietly, hand reaching out to his sibling. “Lock. Look at me, please.”

Bond kept stealing glances, trying to understand the odd relationship Q had with his brother; Q rarely spoke of Sherlock, but his loyalty was unswerving and absolute. Within a few hours of his disappearing, Q had started to track him.

Sherlock had been quite badly beaten; the bruises were still deepening over visible skin, blood over his face where the skin had split entirely. “Hello Q,” he rasped, shards of blue eyes fixing on him. “You’re my rescue party, I take it?”

“I was hardly going to trust you with anyone else,” Q smirked; Sherlock would be alright. He would doubtless spend time in hospital now, driving various medical staff to the point of apoplexy.

Sherlock somehow managed to look fondly disapproving, despite barely being able to see out of one eye. “This wasn’t your safest mission to be active on,” Sherlock pointed out. “They are erratic, and violent, and were attempting to target you, however poorly.”

“I can take care of myself,” Q grinned, trying to assess if Sherlock stood a chance of making it out of the building under his own steam. “I even went without Mycroft’s help.”

“Fat git,” Sherlock murmured to himself, grouching over Mycroft even when physically compromised. He managed to stand with notable difficulty, before staggering towards the door. “And you’re Bond, then?”

“James Bond,” Bond replied with a nod.

Sherlock blinked languidly, propped up on the doorframe. “If you hurt my brother, I’ll kill you,” he said flatly, terrifying, despite barely standing.

“Understood,” Bond said pleasantly, and helped support Sherlock out of the building.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi darling! I am not, i feel really pleased, haha, soo…i join a new fandom and i though on a fic where Q has a new girlfriend but this girl is Moriarty’s little sister, when Mycroft find out who is she he says Bond to protect Q, but even she loves Jim, she actually loves Q and doesnt want to hurt him. What do you think? – queen-of-pudding

Bond was finding the day a little surreal, overall.

Mycroft Holmes was not an especially pleasant human being, but he did – at least – have the intelligence to _properly_ abduct Bond. He genuinely made an effort, which was honestly appreciated, given how many shoddy abductions Bond had been subject to in his life.

True, he was practically _feral_ by the time they started talking, but everyone was also still in one piece.

“Your Quartermaster,” the man with the umbrella said calmly. “He is a point of interest. His new partner is a young lady, named Emily Moriarty. I’m sure you have heard that surname before.”

Bond exhaled slowly, body exuding distrust. “Everybody knows of James Moriarty,” he replied carefully. “Who are you?”

The man smiled genially. “Mycroft Holmes,” he said, with a polite incline of his head. “And you are James Bond, agent 007. We work for the same side, Mr Bond, before you get yourself distressed.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “Distressed,” he echoed, with a hint of contempt. Mycroft’s lips twitched. “Why Q?”

Mycroft relaxed a little, fingers playing with the handle of his umbrella. “Nothing sinister,” he said; not the most reassuring thing Bond had heard in a while. “Merely that he is my brother, and requires protection. I worry about him. Look after him, would you? She is already lying, not the most auspicious start.”

Really, there was little to be argued. Bond was transported back to his own flat, and not a further word was said on the subject.

-

Ultimately, there was no option but to debrief Q. His girlfriend was the daughter of a known terrorist and criminal mastermind; Bond sat in his Quartermaster’s office, and announced what he knew.

Q’s expression closed off quickly. He looked horribly, desperately sad for the slightest of moments,

“Thank you, Bond,” he said calmly. “I can take it from here.”

Bond understood he had been dismissed, and promptly vanished. Q let out a long sigh, eyes shut, and let himself despair for a brief moment.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i must say that i love your blog and have literally spent hours procrastinating and not sleeping because they are so good, i was wondering if you wouldn’t mind doing blondlock with q as moriarty and bond as moran. i just think q would make a terrifyingly good moriarty given the chance - anon

The boy who ambled around the edge of the swimming pool was terribly unassuming, terribly easy to forget. That was, of course, the design; a man who could blend without trying, could vanish into the ether at a moment’s notice.

The spider, in his web, waiting for another strand to twitch.

“Did I truly make such a fleeting impression on you, Mr Holmes?” the boy asked politely, mockingly, while John stood with a bomb strapped around him. “A pity. Moriarty. James Moriarty.”

Sherlock’s jaw hardened a little, glancing over John, the red laser on his chest. He raised an eyebrow on it, and James’s smile turned faintly patronising. “I have others to pull the trigger,” he said lightly, glancing up to the rafters, where his Moran was waiting. His ex-army sniper, a perfect shot, a gorgeous blonde creation with eyes a terrifyingly gorgeous blue. “Now. Here we both are, playing games, as we always have and always shall; that is,” he said, with a benevolent nod. “Assuming you can survive this.”

“You run things from the shadows…”

“Living and dying is so easily managed, if you do so intelligently,” Moriarty said mildly. “I fix the problems people have, savoury or otherwise.”

Sherlock’s tone was bitter, contemptuous. “Consulting criminal. Brilliant.”

Moriarty simply raised an eyebrow. “Quite,” he murmured. “Nobody finds me; I linger in the eye of the storm, absolved of all responsibility. You’re the closest anyone’s ever come to tracking me down.”

“Thank you.”

A small smile. “Not a compliment.”

“Yes, it was,” Sherlock contradicted easily, and Moriarty’s grin widened properly.

“Alright – yes. It was,” he returned, easily and terrifyingly calm. “This ends here, Mr Holmes. Consider this your first, your _only_ , warning. My dear friend, Moran, will be prepared to let the entire building blow up, it would actually be quite a diverting pastime for him. Kidnapping children is really quite Neanderthal, don’t you think?”

Sherlock’s eyes were absolutely _blazing_ with anger. “Not the term that came to mind,” he said drily. He glanced at John. “Are you alright?”

“You can speak,” Moriarty said conspiratorially, smiling softly, liltingly. The pair exchanged words for a while, to Moriarty’s immense amusement, the weapon plans easily acquired and discarded. “Don’t be dull,” he chastised mildly, smiling absentmindedly at Moran in the gallery.

Moriarty and Moran. The spider, and the trigger.

How perfectly they worked.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!! I love your Bondlock fics, would you be so kind to fill my prompt? You can take your time. Little Hamish has been kidnaped and uncle Q and James save him from Moriarty’s hands. Something extremly fluffy and full of love. You are an amazing writer :) – anon

Bond covered the door with a gun Q had made for him, while Q himself darted into the central room to retrieve a six-year-old child from the inner sanctum of James Moriarty.

Hamish, to his credit, was emanating his parents; he wasn’t crying, didn’t seem overwhelmingly perturbed. He glanced up when the door opened from a rather intricate drawing of the a castle, and smiled. “Uncle Q!” he said delightedly. “Are you here to rescue me?”

Q smirked, nodded. “Uncle James is just outside, but we need you to come with us quickly, okay?”

The child was the living copy of Sherlock, much to John’s pleasure; he had piercing Holmesian eyes, but oddly, the calm that lived behind them was entirely John’s. Q adored the boy, and upon hearing that Moriarty had become involved, had become a rather integral part of getting him back.

Sherlock had deduced the location, and John was on hand outside for any medical care should the need arise. Q had simply barged his way in – with Bond at his side, who happened to be Hamish’s godfather – and was now very happy to scoop Hamish into his arms and run with him out the building.

Hamish just sighed, glancing out over the world with Sherlock’s keen expression and Mycroft’s characteristic dispassion; a true Holmes, really. Hopefully, John would allow the boy to develop a heart and morality in a way the other Holmes boys never quite managed, not even Q.

Still, it was difficult to argue that ‘caring was not an advantage’ when it had ensured Hamish’s rescue in  _less than four hours_. Nobody was going to allow a damn thing to happen to the boy.

Q carefully placed Hamish in John’s arms; the child was instantly subjected to a short lecture on  _not wandering off_ , and  _what did Moriarty do_ , to which Hamish simply replied that he hadn’t ‘wandered’ but been exploring, and that ‘Jim didn’t do anything’.

Bond smirked, and Q couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow; well.

That boded badly.


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could you do a prompt of Irene Adler somehow gets to MI6, maybe they realize she’s better working with them then against, and she invariably bumps into Bond and Q? Maybe Q recognizes her from Sherlock’s exploits and thus doesn’t like her at all. But he can’t tell Bond that because it would blow his civilian cover, so Bond gets frustrated Q isn’t telling him everything and of course Irene is flirting so much that she makes them both uncomfortable? Thanks so much, sorry it’s a little longer! – undercover-timelord

“You’re a very pretty thing, aren’t you?” she asked, voice inviting and treacly and everything Q detested on principle.

Irene Adler had been employed by MI6. Quite  _why_  MI6 had decided to make such a colossally stupid move, Q had yet to find out; he loathed the woman, with more fervour than he had known possible.

Adler had been the one to systematically get under Sherlock’s skin. He had been beaten by her, in spectacular style. Sherlock had  _mourned_ , for god’s sake, something that hadn’t happened when their  _father_  had died. No, Irene Adler was a nasty piece of work, and definitely bad for Sherlock and MI6 and everybody else in the vicinity.

It made Q feral, infuriated. Not to mention that she flirted outright with  _everybody_  – Q’s partner included – which just happened to play on a number of existing insecurities about their relationship that Q really had  _not_  wanted to deal with.

Either way, Adler was now a fixture in MI6. Bond was irate, because Q couldn’t tell him  _why_  he hated Irene Adler without sounding like a) a petulant child or b) blowing his MI6 cover story which everybody had worked very hard on making waterproof. Not to mention that he didn’t want to get onto the subject of His Real Name, because Mummy had sadistic tendencies when it came to child-rearing which had only gotten worse with age.

Q settled for intermittent glaring, and generalised irritation. Bond was – understandably – at his wits end.

“I’m sure I could have  _both_  of you,” she purred at one stage, leant on Q’s desk with Bond behind, Q’s hands bunched into fists while Bond watched with mocking amusement. “Mr Bond, your reputation…”

“Is a long way in the past,” Q interrupted snippily. “Do you have a constructive purpose here, or are you simply clogging up my office?”

Irene smiled daggers.

Well, then. At least the feeling was mutual.


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I remember reading a Sherlock/Q as a pairing here earlier, but that’s the only one, there is no love for that paring at all :x Here’s the prompt, an extreme one (incest!): Sherlock and Q known each other since their births(but NOT as siblings) and they were happily dating since elementary/high school, perfectly fit to each other in terms of intelligence and everything UNTIL they discovered that they were brothers! Sherlock went into drugs and Q isolated himself to technology. Angst apparently. – anon

Q got the call in the middle of the night. He was awake, of course, and had been for about the last thirty hours, more or less constantly. The screen burned his eyes, reflected off his glasses, and his head ached as he picked up the phone. “Hello?” he rasped.

The man on the other end bleated for a handful of minutes. Q was paralysed for a little while, jaw tight, blinking slowly. “I understand,” he breathed. “On my way.”

Slowly, Q picked himself up, threw on his coat, feeling swamped.

Sherlock was in hospital, after an overdose of cocaine. He had been found in his flat in London – he had dropped out of Cambridge after barely a year, lived in London on his own now – barely breathing.

It took hours to get down to London, and Q couldn’t drive. He made his way to the train station, middle of the night, frozen and exhausted and blinking, eyes hollow. This was going to end badly. Nobody really knew, or could understand, quite how painful this would be for everybody concerned.

Dawn was breaking by the time Q got into Paddington, and hailed a cab; this would blow his student budget, but he simply didn’t care. He had a sibling to take care of that, now, an older sibling who owned the British Government and was going from strength to strength.

And he had another sibling –  _just_  a sibling – who was lying in a hospital bed having finally managed his own self-destruction.

He looked very small, which was odd. Q remembered him being so tall, always taller than Q had been, from their earliest childhood. His hair was the same, the face far thinner, everything gaunt. “Why the fuck,” Q mumbled at him, and collapsed into the chair; he had hacked the hospital computers on the way down, knew he would be allowed in without question.

For several hours, there was silence.

“Get out,” Sherlock rasped, after a while. Q woke up with a start, looking over Sherlock’s emaciated body. “Out. You’re not supposed to be here.”

Q didn’t smile. “I’m your brother, and you nearly died,” he said neutrally, his chest clenching painfully. “I had to come. You’re… Sherlock, I’m sorry, you know I’m sorry…”

“You are always sorry, and always a coward,” Sherlock told him sharply, surprisingly vitriolic. “Society dictates, and you – willing stooge – do as they say. You’re pathetic.”

A moment of hesitation. “It’s illegal,” Q pointed out quietly, and his heart was breaking again, yet again. “Sherlock,  _please_. I never wanted this, I never wanted… this is…”

Sherlock lifted a hand, and Q fell silent. “I allowed myself emotional engagement, and discovered that predictably, it was not advantageous. Allow me my space.  _Leave_.”

“I loved you too,” Q murmured, almost smiling. Sherlock had never been emotionally adept, and didn’t this just illustrate in horrible technicolour. “Please, be safe. I can’t lose you.”

Sherlock snorted, almost smiling, pure contempt. “Go back to your computer. Cyberspace must be missing you,” he snarled, and closed his eyes.

He refused to say another word.


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi I was wondering could you do a prompt where Q is a Holmes and dating James who meets Mycroft because he is getting in trouble for something he did in a mission? :) And then Q turns up and it gets incredibly awkward. – imightbeaninja

Bond was really  _very_  impressed by his kidnappers. They had – for the first time in a _long_  time – achieved the honestly difficult feat of attaching him to a chair so he could not, in any way, free himself. His wrists were tacked in such a way that he couldn’t get the leverage to manoeuvre his hands out – or indeed break the thumbs, should it be necessary – and his usual last-ditch resort involving knocking the chair over and using it to his advantage – was gone by virtue of the chair being  _bolted to the floor_.

It was just unfair.

“Highly reminiscent of shibari, wouldn’t you say?” mused a voice from somewhere to his left. “I thought you’d appreciate it.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “Only in certain company. Who might you be?”

“You know precisely who I am, Mr Bond. What you do not know, quite yet, is  _why_  I have brought you here. As to the method of conveyance, I do apologise, but you are not always easy to acquire. I’m sure you’ll concede that point.”

Bond exhaled slowly. Kidnappers with that type of syntax rarely made for a good afternoon. Although, that said, mentioning bondage so early in the proceedings was an intriguing novelty. “So – why  _do_  you want me, Mr Mycroft Holmes?”

“Thank you for not trying to deny it,” Mycroft said with a touch of smugness, ambling into Bond’s immediate view. “Now, as to why you are here: you are in a fledgling relationship with your Quartermaster, correct?”

“Yes,” Bond returned easily.

Mycroft’s smile was grim. “Then would you care to explain your near-suicidal approach to your most recent Argentina assignment?” he asked with dangerously polite casualness. “I feel Q would take badly to your demise.”

Bond blinked. He  _really_  hadn’t seen that coming. “What?” he said, quite taken aback for one of the first times in his career. “You’re worried about how Q would take my death?”

“He has a point,” piped out a separate voice. “Mycroft, untie my boyfriend from the chair, please. It’s fine. He’s an idiot, but I’ll deal with him  _myself_ , do you understand? Interfering git.”

“I cannot believe how persistently ungrateful you and Sherlock are for my interventions, when your respective partners…”

Q shot Mycroft an impressively dark glare. “Two things. One, kidnapping does not constitute an intervention, but assault. Two, Sherlock and John are not official yet, and you’re being unkind to force their hands. Leave all of us alone. We are old enough to take care of ourselves.”

Bond glanced at Q quickly. “Tell me there’s an explanation?”

“You won’t like it,” Q warned.

“Try me.”

Q rolled his eyes, as Mycroft sighed. “My sibling,” Q said carefully.

It was almost gratifying, Mycroft mused, seeing the expression on Bond’s face.


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I beg on my hands and knees for a Bond/Mycroft pairing. Some words to give you ideas… Roses, park, torture, and rain. Please fill?? Pretty please? – anon

It was impossible to not know at least  _of_  one another, even if their paths only crossed rarely. Mycroft Holmes was a known quantity in governmental circles; it was quietly implied that he knew all there was to be known in their world, and Bond admired that, if nothing else.

The umbrella was necessary, for once, expanded in a cloth and plastic net, catching the rain, draining it away. The walk was usual and habitual, his twenty minutes a day of physical exercise that one supposedly should engage in. It always seemed such a pointless endeavour, but then, many things did.

A single red rose, on an isolated bench. The petals stuck damply together, water adhering them in a clump, an almost romantic gesture that was somehow more poignant in the tipping rain of England in late Spring.

Apart from indicating that Mycroft’s schedule had become far too regular to be healthy, it was something of a surprise. Nobody else would be around in this type of weather; it was aimed at Mycroft, and Mycroft alone.

Very few could manage such a feat without Mycroft noticing, in some way. Ergo, it narrowed the list considerably.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said aloud, the stem between long fingers.

The figure emerged seamlessly through the rain, in a manner that had a type of lyricism. Mycroft’s eloquence came in words, constructs and forms of words and sentences; this man’s was in motion, the easy coherency of body and expression and form. Guarded, but readable, if one knew the lexicon.

If Mycroft knew nothing else, he knew how to read people.

“Your mission was not successful, we can assume?” Mycroft asked quietly, looking over the uneasy pain of a posture accustomed to stress, learned, the weight distribution wrong and difficulty in breath, everything in his body fluid by necessity.

A quirked smile. “Not as such. Nothing like it, to make you get a sense that life is too short to waste,” he said simply, utter honesty.

“Carpe diem,” Mycroft murmured neutrally, and watched with all due care, plotting the tracks of another’s form with full knowledge of the intention. “Bond…”

“James, please,” Bond interrupted, watching, getting steadily drenched. “Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft didn’t quite want to help the small, understated smile. “Mycroft,” he corrected, watching Bond’s expression lighten. “Mycroft will do, I think.”


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hello. :) i’m loving the stories you make. :”> if you’re still receiving prompts can you please write a story where John and Sherlock are married with a kid and their both fighting so Q babysits his niece/nephew? it can be 00q! :D thankyouu.

"Thanks so much for this Q," John said shrugging on his coat. "I have no idea where he’s got to,.."

"It’s fine," Q replied wearily, as Hamish launched himself at Q’s legs.

"CHU CHU!!" he yelled.

The boy had inherited Mycroft’s accent and Sherlock’s vocabulary, and yet was somehow unable to fully pronounce a ‘Q’, Q had become ‘Chu’, which in turn had led his nephew to believe that Uncle Q was actually a train. Or something along those line.

John patted Q on the shoulder as he opened the door. “I’ll let you know when I find him,” John grimaced. Q smiled, walking into 221B with Hamish all but attached to his ankle, babbling about something or other with massive degrees of excitement.

"Hello?" Mrs Hudson called, knocking the door before opening it. She was carrying a large tray of tea and a few biscuits. Q could have kissed her. "I thought you might need a cuppa.”

Mrs Hudson  _cooed_  over Q, on a general basis. She adored the youngest Holmes, and his partner: ‘such nice boys, so kind, so thoughtful’. Not to mention that she stared at Bond in a way that was definitely not quite maternal, from time to time.

"They were arguing?" Q confirmed, watching Hamish coat himself in crumbs, before re-attaching to Q’s leg.

Mrs Hudson nodded sadly. “They’ve been so much better recently since,” she nodded at the toddler. “But, I suppose, old habits.”

"Thanks for the patterns," Q remembered suddenly, abruptly changing subject."They were brilliant.”

"No problem dear, I’ve got a pile of them in my wardrobe, I just can’t do much knitting any more. Arthritis, you understand," Mrs Hudson told him with a self-deprecating nod, sipping her tea.

“Want to watch TV, please,” Hamish tried, employing his father’s charm to its fullest extent. He was a beautifully angelic child, biologically Sherlock’s, however, John’s influence had been an incredibly beneficial one. He had somehow tempered some of the sharper aspects of the Holmesian nature.

Q smiled; he was a wonderful child. It actually, unlike most children, made Q feel rather broody. He could imagine a miniature version of James running around, and a sharp stab of something hit into his abdomen.

"Planning any of your own dear?" Mrs Hudson asked; bloody mind reader.

Q didn’t look away from Hamish, smiling slightly. “I’d love one,” Q told her honestly. “But work…”

Hamish delightedly watched one of his favourite DVD’s; a nature documentary of some description. “Oh shush, you sound just like your brother,” Mrs Hudson chastised.

Q feigned absolute fascination in the programme, mainly to deter Mrs Hudson from further questioning; she eventually retreated, leaving Q to his thoughts.

He would need to talk to James.


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been meaning to ask and I finally got the courage to do so. I know you must’ve a lot to write but I’d love if you could indulge me with this. So, Bond’s been away in a mission and the day he comes back and right to Q-branch to see Q and spots something he mistakes as the boy cheating on him so, furious he leaves but what really happened was someone forcing himself on Q. It’s be great if it gets some Holmes in and some sort of happy ending. Before hand, thanks :D – konoto

Q was over his own desk, facing away from the door, trousers around his ankles; Bond looked over him for a moment, door wide, the other looking up in frozen alarm and evident panic at the intrusion. He didn’t stop, however, stroking through Q’s hair with one hand while the other worked between his legs, and Q was still, pliant. “Can I help?” the man asked, smirking.

“Forgive the intrusion,” Bond said simply, coldly, and walked out.

The door closed, as he heard Q call out his name.

-

Bond rolled his eyes, rotating his hands in the cuffs. “What now, Mycroft?” he asked coldly, irritably. The eldest Holmes – Q’s brother – sat looking at him with an expression that was almost, very nearly, actual anger. An actual  _emotion_.

“In the latter half of yesterday afternoon, my younger brother was sexually assaulted,” Mycroft informed him. “Mercifully, my people were able to intervene before it went any further. As it is, Q is – as you may imagine – extremely distressed, and I would be intrigued to know why you have felt it necessary to avoid and insult him throughout the course of the last twenty-four hours.”

For a curious moment, everything paused. “Sexually assaulted?” Bond repeated, with almost lethal quiet. “I misread. I didn’t appreciate… Mycroft, is he alright?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, his expression still utterly merciless. “He’s physically intact,” he stated. “I believe he would have been far better had he not been branded some form of prostitute by his partner. Unsurprisingly, he responded far less well to that.”

“Let me go. Let me see him.”

Mycroft waved his hands; shadows moved, the handcuffs fell loose, and Bond was gone in a heartbeat.

-

Q was curled on their sofa, watching TV of some description. “Mycroft got to you first, then,” he said aloud, without any greeting. “Sherlock was planning to simply kill you. John would have helped. I’m not convinced I would have bothered stopping them.”

Bond moved around the sofa, dropping to his knees in front of his lover.  “I’m sorry,” he said, opting for absolute blanket simplicity. He had made a horrific error, forced his lover to deal with something horrible on his own. “Are you…?”

“I was nearly raped in my own office,” Q told him, voice abruptly hitching on the last word; his entire face crumpled, body contracting a little. “I needed you, James.”

Hands reached out, softly wrapping around Q’s trembling form, gentle and apologetic and so loving. “I love you,” Bond breathed. “I am so sorry, Q, I’m so sorry.”

“I hate you for this,” Q told him, through a mounting series of sobs. “I  _hate you_. I just, _fuck_ , James…”

“I know,” Bond murmured, keeping his embrace tight and careful. “I know.”


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bondlock au- maybe a greg lestrade pov where bond is wreaking havoc in london and the yard attempts to arrest him only to have BOTH holmes brothers (plus a third dear god how is there THREE of them?) bust down their door with a very nonplussed john in tow to bail out bond. basically some familial funtimes with some light 00q and johnlock, and greg taking stock at just how ridiculous his life has become. – anon

Lestrade was having a spectacularly weird day.

Firstly, there had been the case of a goddamn MI6 agent causing absolute chaos across most of Central London. He nearly put a stop to the damned Metropolitan line, shot a man in plain sight, and nearly threw a little old lady in front of a bus. He had then been an absolute nightmare to pin in one place.

Secondly, there had been the perverse intrusion of every single Holmes in the vicinity, attempting to  _release_  said chaos-inflicting secret agent.

Thirdly. There was  _another Holmes_.

That was the point at which Greg had to take a seat, and let his blood pressure return to something near stable. It was bad enough with two. Sherlock was a perpetually brilliant and exasperating presence, and Mycroft was just frightening. The third ostensibly seemed to be approaching normal, but that was probably optimistic.

After that point, he was invited to dinner with the Holmes clan and their respective partners.

John took pity; the Holmes boys were blissfully unaware, and Greg had always felt a certain solidarity with John. They both had far too much contact with Sherlock, after all. “I know it’s a shock,” he said mildly, “but Q is mostly harmless. Well, not ‘harmless’, but he’s not the type you’ll want to punch in the face after a few minutes.”

“Q?” Greg asked, a little weakly. “As in…?”

“Pretty much,” John interjected, before Greg could finish the thought. “Best to not ask about it. Official Secrets Act and all sorts, but I expect Mycroft will make you sign it before the evening’s out.”

After a certain point, it seemed entirely daft to pretend to understand. Greg just let everything wash over him, and hope that at some stage, he might stand a hope of understanding just what his life had become.


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, firstly you are brilliant. I mean you are truly brilliant. Prompt for you if you will: James and Q are the “married ones” Mrs Hudsen mentioned when John and Sherlock moved in. They’re still MI6, Q and Sherlock aren’t brothers or anything and John and James have never met. – bornscreaming

They encountered one another when the double-oh agent had knocked on their door, and asked them to consult on a case for MI6.

A little surreal, but not the oddest thing Sherlock and John had ever come across. After being consulted by a member of the Royal Family, MI6 was almost a step down, to be quite honest; they needed Sherlock to take a look at a crime scene that had potential terrorist links, had no CCTV coverage or anything particularly concrete to analyse.

Sherlock rolled his shoulders, and consented easily. “Double-oh agent?” he drawled; Bond raised an eyebrow, and nodded.

“Where have I seen you before?” John asked aloud; he hadn’t quite managed to stop staring at Bond, trying to place him.

Bond smirked, looking between John and Sherlock. “I live two doors away,” he said lightly. “My husband and I. We haven’t been introduced properly, but I know Mrs Hudson quite well, her and our landlady are quite close.”

John let out a slow breath, smiling with satisfaction. “That’s it,” he said, looking a little more settled. “Your partner’s the skinny, dark-haired one, right?”

Bond nodded, expression politely amused. “He’s been suggesting taking you two out for dinner at some stage. Get to know the neighbours, et cetera,” he asked them, in a tone that somehow made it not quite a question. “We can organise it, once this case is over. I’d better introduce you, you will dealing with him a good deal on this case.”

-

Sherlock and Q did not get on, to put it mildly.

As John commented to Bond later:  _that much ego in a confined space, I’m not surprised they hate each other_.

Both parties were far too intelligent for their own good, and resented the other being involved; Q was accustomed to not needing external help for his work, and Sherlock loathed being asked to depend on a man he did not know and did not respect. Their intellects, and admittedly egos, simply could not survive one another.

John and Bond found it absolutely hilarious.

It had to be said, it made dinner less likely; nobody really relished the idea of Sherlock and Q meeting through anything other than the limited communication afforded by earpieces. Anything more seemed bordering on suicidal.

Instead, Bond and John agreed to go out for drinks on their own sometime, and leave the two egomaniacs to themselves.


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi! A prompt that came to me when I was struggling to sleep last night. Bond!Lock in which Q and Sherlock are meeting the other’s lover for the first time, and it is discovered the Q and John once dated (you can decide whether it was a good breakup or not) Cue Sherlock torn between protective older brother mode and jealous lover, and Bond being extremely amused by the whole situation – nerdqueen269

Bond straightened his cuffs, looking over Q with mild amusement; he seemed almost nervous, something Bond simply didn’t frequently associate with Q. “Everything alright?” he asked, with a slight note of curiosity.

Q glanced at him briefly, shuffling slightly where he stood. “It’s just… Sherlock doesn’t _do_  relationships, and I’m slightly worried it’s going to be some scary bastard with minimal social skills who can actually  _put up_  with Sherlock… fuck, here he comes.”

Sherlock was intimidating at the best of times, and was frankly frightening at the worst. “Evening, Q,” he commented drily, glancing over his brother appraisingly. “I suppose I should introduce my partner; he’s getting drinks, bear with him.”

“John, isn’t it?” Q recalled lightly, answered with a curt nod from his brother.

Sherlock waved him forward, and the bottom dropped out of Q’s stomach. “Jesus,” John mouthed, looking at Q as though he was some form of apparition; Bond retrieved the drinks helpfully before the man dropped them.

Q gaped for a moment, completely and entirely sideswiped. “My god,” he murmured back. “John. John Watson. It’s been  _years_ , hasn’t it?”

“So,” John managed. “You must be Q, now? I just didn’t put it together, I know you two look similar, but I never  _imagined_ …”

“Would somebody like to explain?” Bond asked over the top of their apparently almost-heartfelt reunion; Q glanced at him quickly, slipping a hand into his as a comfort and apology.

Sherlock’s lips had pursed into a thin, exceptionally unenthusiastic line.

“John and I, we were together for a long time when we were both younger,” Q explained quietly, still watching John with evident disbelief. “He… you were drafted to Afghanistan, and we… well, we well apart, I had MI6 and he was in the Army with no intention of leaving… Christ, I didn’t think I’d ever run into you again. Are you alright?”

John smirked. “Gunshot to the shoulder, invalided home,” he explained, Q turning slightly pale at the concept, and Bond murmuring  _snap_ , while barely concealing his smirk. “I’m fine, though. Busy solving cases with your big brother now, believe it or not.”

“Cases?” Q asked, squeezing Bond’s hand to let him know he was not forgotten.

The pair bounced stories, catching up after years – until Sherlock wrenched John around, and kissed him soundly.

Q raised an eyebrow, Bond openly snorted, and John looked like he had been whacked over the head with something solid. “I appreciate not being forgotten,” Sherlock explained primly, and took a long swallow of his drink, trying to pretend he still had some sense of decorum.


	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *throws flowers at you* You are wonderful. Could you do a fic where Bond sees Q with Sherlock (his older brother) and thinks Q’s cheating on him? – anon

Q was sat in the café with a tea the size of his head, talking animatedly, with a playful familiarity that Bond was far more used to seeing directed at  _him_  than with anybody else. To everybody else in the world, Q was relatively dispassionate, professional, with a dry sense of humour and a terrifying brilliance with words.

To Bond, he was a six-year-old in a grown man’s body. Which, right now, he was being in the presence of another human being who was  _not Bond_.

The other man was tall, dark-haired, angular features and cheekbones. Not really Bond’s scene, but Q seemed caught by whatever he was saying, and Bond began to truly understand what  _jealousy_  entailed.

Thus, Bond pushed the door open, and strode directly to their table.

The other man looked up, and snorted. “I’m his brother,” he said directly, nodding at Q. “Not his illicit ‘other man’. You  _must_  find less paranoid partners in the future, Q.”

Q glanced up at Bond, and just rolled his eyes, a little patronisingly. “You’re a complete idiot,” he said, with a mild sigh. “Sherlock, this is James. James, Sherlock. My brother. Pull up a chair.”

Frankly, Bond  _needed_  to. “You have siblings?!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s obvious,” he commented drily. “Observationally challenged. You continue to astound me, Q.”

“I’m flattered,” Q parried, a little petulantly, while Bond looked between them with an insistent sense of absolute disbelief. “James, stop gaping. It’s not that outlandish, is it?!

Bond had no words, really.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was rapidly turning into one of Bond’s least-favourite people he had ever met. Arrogant and petulant and condescending, and quite obviously Q’s sibling, the more time Bond spent with him.

“Come on,” Q said after a while, taking pity. “Sherlock, I’ll see you soon.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Bond told him; while his mind was reeling a little, his general veneer was still very much intact.

Sherlock simply glanced him up and down, and rolled his eyes.

 


	46. Chapter 46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could you please write a fic where James have to work with Mycroft on a mission and they end up at the Holmes’ asking a seventeen-years-old Q for help on hacking something. And like, Q is a uni student on holidays, wearing skinny jeans and big hoodies and constantly playfully argue with Mycroft… I’m not sure I’m being clear but… just write something along those lines. If you want (you really are amazing thank you i really like your works kudos for you guys) – manoninthestars

Bond really wasn’t expecting a kid, if he was quite honest. When Mycroft Holmes – of all people – asks for assistance, one would expect somebody with a little  _clout_. Somebody official-looking, and devoid of acne.

In his defence, the kid didn’t have acne, but he certainly had the potential. He trailed out of his room when Mycroft knocked, from a pit of blackness, dressed in skinnies and a massively oversized hoodies, glasses askew and hair absolutely everywhere, yawning as Mycroft explained the technicalities.

“… this is James Bond…”

The boy looked him up and down, lifted a hand in greeting, sleeve covering most of his hand. “Q,” he mumbled back, and pointed down the hall, stifling a yawn very badly.

Bond raised an eyebrow.

Q raised one straight back. “I’m perfectly competent, regardless of age,” he said, with a little touch of defensiveness, before utterly failing to stifle a second yawn. Mycroft rolled his eyes, letting out a restrained sigh. “Don’t be like that My, I’m  _allowed_  to sleep til midday if I want, this is my only chance a year,” he said, a little more sharply.

“It doesn’t precisely give out the  _best_  impression, however,” Mycroft returned drily.

Q snorted. “Don’t get me started on ‘impressions’,” he volleyed; Bond got the impression that the pair would fire and return various quips with blinding speed. “Be nice to me, you need my help.”

“You’re the easiest help to access.”

Q flicked him the finger, as they walked into what looked like a computer room, with enough mugs to be mildly frightening, the oldest of which appeared to be holding a study in fungal growth. “Yeah, I know, I’ll clear it out,” he said, clearing one out of the way to settle at the computer. “So. What’m I doing this time?”

“Bond, would you be so kind as to locate the kettle, second door along, and put it on? Q, I’m assuming you’re craving a cup of Earl Grey?”

Q nodded, fingers twitching slightly as the screen blinked into life. “Perpetually. Cheers,” he completed, with a playful salute to Bond.

Bond just shook his head slightly, and walked to the kitchen feeling rather surprised, for reasons he couldn’t quite put his finger on.


	47. Chapter 47

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I need something that is angst-y with a very happy ending or an open ending that has a bit of hope. Maybe Q mourning either Bond or Sherlock and realizing that he lost everything of sentimental value that kept him anchored to the good memories and help him carry on. (Whether it be from an apartment fire or something is all up to you) Ending is up to you. – mars-hime

Sherlock simply didn’t  _do_  sentimentality.

Q glanced around the bare bones of his flat, an entirely anaesthetised area of his own creation, entirely devoid of essentially anything. He didn’t keep fond remembrances. He had always thought he would never need them.

He had never thought he could lose his brothers.

It sounded odd, perhaps – but Q had always been so aware of the two. Sherlock and Mycroft, his brilliant and absurd and terrifying and  _very much alive_  siblings. Nothing could touch them, nothing could harm them.

Except themselves, apparently. Which was why Q had buried his brother at ten o’clock that morning.

They had all deserved better. John had deserved better. Q had definitely deserved better.

Sherlock hadn’t even left a bloody note for anybody. He hadn’t explained. He had called Doctor Watson, and that was the absolute sum bloody total of it all before plummeting off a building.

Q wanted to throw things.

He also wanted to find something. Anything. A way of tethering himself to his brother, to the brother  _he_  remembered. Sherlock-the-famous-detective was not Q’s. He was John’s, and he was the one the papers would remember. Q remembered a childhood of surprising amounts of laughter, of running and falling, of syringes in semi-darkness, of phonecalls at midnight and surprise parties and cake, and a family. Their family. Before Mycroft stopped being there and their father had died and Sherlock had forgotten how to be.

That was his Sherlock.

And there was nothing left of  _that_  Sherlock in the world.

Q sat on the sofa, curled into himself, and sobbed until the door opened and Bond gently pried him close, wrapped arms around him and held onto him, Q screaming out pain to the remembrances of a brother he could no longer grasp.


	48. Chapter 48

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Q is pregnant, he can no longer avoid the inevitable: introducing James to his parents, John and Sherlock. Previous partners have left him because of Sherlock, so Q is scared. However, he never anticipates John being the cause of problems: turns out John and James served together and were the best buddies and best buddies do not impregnate each others’ children. For real. Ending can be happy or not, but extra cookies if Sherlock deduces the pregnancy before Q can say it aloud <3 Thanks! – anon

“Oh, for god’s  _sake_.”

Q closed his eyes slightly, and prepared for the inevitable. Sherlock was a  _nightmare_ , an absolute unequivocal nightmare, and he had worked it out  _already_  which was pretty much  _not fair_.

So it began, he thought miserably, and shot Bond a look of pure apology.

Bond, however, was otherwise engaged. “John?” he asked slowly.

John looked at Bond, and blinked. “You’re kidding?” he returned, in an identical tone of sheer disbelief. “Bond. James bloody Bond.  _Christ_ , didn’t think I’d be seeing you again! Didn’t you get nicked by the secret service lot?”

Bond grinned. “Yes, still there, still working,” he returned; in an instant, they were in an embrace, hitting each other on the back in companionable manliness which Q couldn’t help but snort at.

“Q is pregnant.”

There was ringing silence for a moment.

John pushed Bond away.

_Fuck_ , Q thought.

“My son?” John asked, in a rising tone. “You impregnated  _my son_?!”

Bond put his hands up in an immediate defence. “I didn’t  _know_  he was your son,” he said quickly, looking a touch nervous for perhaps the second time in Q’s memory. “John, I couldn’t have known…”

John had taken on a frighteningly tense posture, muscles tight and half-knotted. Bond just stared slightly, gaping like a fish. “ _What the fuck_?”

“This is easier than I anticipated,” Sherlock commented lightly, and essentially sat back to enjoy the show.

Q couldn’t quite believe what was happening. “Dad,  _stop it_ ,” he snapped. “It’s fine. James didn’t know, I’ve been living under an initial since I’ve known him. Daddy, same to you, you’re  _always_  a bloody nightmare with things like this.”

“Don’t swear at your father.”

Sherlock just grinned like a cat with cream, and Q lamented quietly. “Are you intending to get married.”

“Oh god, please don’t.”

“John, this is ridiculous…”

“James, don’t call him ridiculous.”

“Don’t insult my husband, Bond.”

Q closed his eyes, and just lamented to himself, hand snaking unconsciously over his belly while his partner and father started raring for a fight, and Sherlock just sat back and grinned like a cat with cream.


	49. Chapter 49

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Q have an argument. (like a HUGE argument) James notices it, Q doesn’t want to talk about it, so Bond calls Mycroft for help. Thanks for all the feels. – anon

The texting stopped suddenly. Q had been glued to his phone for the past half an hour, texting madly as Bond made dinner. He leant back abruptly, took his glasses off and wiped his eyes, looking exceptionally tired.

"Want to talk?" Bond asked, flipping the fish in the pan.

Q shook his head slightly. “No point,” he muttered, tucking his phone away, checking to see for further messages every handful of seconds. Bond nodded, the two in silence for a few minutes as he dished up. Talk soon turned to work, the cat, whether or not to get a new carpet in the living room.

To his credit, Q chatted normally; but to Bond, who had lived with the man for over a year, the cracks were visible. A vague tremble in his hands, jaw tight, blinking a little quickly; the evening was rather awkward, with Bond on eggshells and the edge of his nerve.

"I’m fine," Q repeated, for the several thousandth time. "Look, I’m going to bed. Love you.”

Q kissed Bond’s head softly, and retired to the bedroom.

It took Bond five minutes before he was on the phone.

"The argument?" Mycroft said immediately, Bond settling back into the sofa to hear the eldest Holmes’ voice. “Yes, John has already called."

"So it is Sherlock, then?" Bond confirmed, not overwhelmingly surprised; it was only familial disputes that would provoke a reaction like Q’s had been, and it was common knowledge that Sherlock and Q were far closer than either to Mycroft.

The latter sounded somewhat wearied. “Indeed. It is difficult to ascertain quite the subject concerned, but I believe it was yet another dialogue on the merits of MI6, and their current international actions in the Middle-East.”

"Intervention?" Bond asked; it was this trait, the utter pragmatism, that meant while Sherlock and Q couldn’t quite abide the man, Bond and Mycroft had something worryingly close to friendship.

His voice was calm, measured. “Take him to the park tomorrow, I’ll pick them up there.”

-

The park was a fairly quiet one, close to their home. Any green space in London was appreciated, and the pair of them did enjoy their brief sojourns into the outside world; Bond lived and breathed a world outside the MI6 microcosm, and Q could bear the occasional glimpses. Fresh air was always a nice novelty.

They had barely managed to acquire drinks – tea and an espresso, in corresponding cardboard cups – when the car pulled up.

Q sighed, debating running.  “Twat,” he muttered to Bond.

"In the car, Q," Bond said kindly. "Please."

A look of frank, livid betrayal.

Q got into the car, Bond following behind, preparing to (once again) act as mediators (with John) between the two Holmes siblings.


	50. Chapter 50

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because I think the show wife swap is hilarious, could you maybe do something like that with James and Q? – anon

Everybody swapped houses; Q and Bond, Mycroft and Greg, Sherlock and John. Which meant – in practise – that Q went to 221B, Mycroft went to stay with Bond, and Sherlock went to Greg’s.

At first, John was dubious, then delighted. Q was quiet, neat, and far,  _far_ less trouble than his elder brother. He liked tea, made good tea, and other than a few hacking habits, he was an ideal roommate.

Mycroft proved to be a sublime housemate for Bond, mostly through the nature of simply not being there. His neatness appealed to various naval tendencies that Bond often simply denied and the pair found great solace in being able to sit into total silence very happily.

Greg and Sherlock refused to talk about what occurred in their week together.

Then, of course, they all swapped around: Sherlock went to Bond’s, Q went to Greg’s, and Mycroft went to stay with John.

Bond was close to committing homicide.

Sherlock was not only an arrogant, lazy, messy, childish man, he also had no concept of personal belongings. The swap lasted less than two days, Mycroft won three pounds and Sherlock had developed an even greater loathing for his brother in law.

Greg felt like he was babysitting. Q was not only just under half his age, but his daughter spent the day swooning over the boy. He was nice enough, but student habits died hard and really there were only so many dirty socks he would pick up, or used tea cups he could handle.

Mycroft was just extremely frightening to be around for protracted periods of time; John spent a lot of his time very worriedly making tea and hoping he wouldn’t be shot from some high window for no apparent reason.

John allowed himself the fear, and – for perhaps the first time in his life – was honestly and completely  _delighted_  to have Sherlock back. He was a nightmare, yes, but he was _infinitely_  better than anybody else.

Bond and Q shagged one another senseless the moment they were back in a room together.

Mycroft decided that everybody else were idiots, and deemed himself exceptionally fortunate to  have Greg in his life.


	51. Chapter 51

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I was wondering if you’d write a Bond!lock piece where Bond gets along really well with Sherlock and Mycroft, and is even protective of the Holmes brothers (despite Q’s insistence that they’re all perfectly capable of taking care of themselves)? To the point of being wary of John coming into Sherlock’s life? – anon

“James, this is getting  _ridiculous_  now,” Q said, with pure exasperation.

The Holmes family: the youngest quickly being hailed as the greatest quartermaster in the history of MI6, the middle a consulting detective with a formidable career and intellect on his side, and the eldest probably the most dangerous man anybody was liable to meet.

James Bond. A very adept secret agent. The best, actually, but nobody was prepared to butter his ego by admitting that.

Bond was  _insistent_  that he could be a pseudo-bodyguard for the Holmes brothers. Ever since meeting them all – and getting on famously, which Q had not seen coming and was not adverse to – matters had been somewhat odd, and Bond had been a guardian of sorts.

Now, he was getting extremely suspicious – and visibly unhappy – with the presence of one John Watson in Sherlock’s life.

Q found it equal parts exasperating and endearing. Sherlock was useless at expressing it, but Q knew him well enough to see the genuine affection, care, that he was beginning to harbour towards the doctor – and indeed, how good the man was for him.

Bond saw nothing but an external intervention that had not been necessarily appreciated in full, and was visibly discomfited, and began to essentially stalk Sherlock to ensure that John wouldn’t kill him in the middle of the night.

“James, Mycroft has vetted him.  _I_  have vetted him. Not to mention that Sherlock knows enough martial arts forms and general self-defence to deck even an army soldier,  _especially_  an injured one,” Q explained, crisply, after another call from his brother informing him that the ‘guard dog needs to be called off’.

Q had flushed bright red, and agreed.

Bond was having  _none of it_.

“If anything happens to you…”

Q attacked him.

Bond was so surprised he couldn’t respond for a moment, working on instinct while his brain caught up, and found himself in a surprisingly adept headlock, before being essentially flattened by a boy half his size. “… and I’m the worst fighter in the family,” Q told him sharply. “We can take care of ourselves. Intellect notwithstanding, we can deal with things without help.”

There was no good answer to that, except to nod.

It only occurred several hours later that he had missed something important, and _terrifying_ , in Q’s sentence:

If Q was the worst fighter, what in the hell could Mycroft Holmes do?!


	52. Chapter 52

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello beautifuls!! So, what about Mummy Holmes throwing a Christmas party and someone bitching about the fact that her three children are gay (so ships would be mystrade, johnlock and 00q)?? and Mummy defending her babies? thank you xx – anon

Mycroft was, of course, subtle to the point of invisibility when it came to his relationship; Lestrade was equally, given the chance of it undermining his position in the Met Police – while progressive, it would be delusional to assume that his relationship would be fully accepted – and they had only been comfortable at the Holmes Christmas party given that they were supposedly surrounded by friends.

Sherlock had snapped into the decision and realisation that he was gay and in a relationship, and thus had no compunctions about being completely open and honest about himself and John. In fact, he took a type of pride in it that bordered on malice; he was content to somewhat smugly parade himself.

Q and Bond were in a functional longterm relationship, and casually, quietly domestic about it. Their interactions were subtle but notable; they shared space and conversation and touch almost without noticing.

It had been going  _so well_ , until one of Mummy’s guests got drunk.

Mycroft noticed first.

It was a pity, on balance, that he was the most sensitive about the subject. Greg was better, but Mycroft didn’t have the faculties Q and Sherlock did; they saw, quite suddenly, the tension in Mycroft’s body ramp up a notch.

John’s fingers were very nearly crushed by Sherlock, as he too heard the slurs, the comments, drunken ramblings that it was mockingly  _impressive, for any family to turn out that many_  and  _it’s always the parenting_  and  _aren’t there reports of family abuse in most homosexuals_  and  _always thought they were fucking weird_  and…

Q’s body seemed to drain of something, some intangible pain replacing his usual strength, and Bond moved close to him, body moving a little closer, warmth bleeding through.

Bond and John exchanged looks, and were  _inches_  from taking action, hands straying towards holsters.

Mummy Holmes beat them to it.

“My sons,” she began, “are a collection of the most extraordinary people you are ever likely to come across. Their requisite jobs, their successes, the fact that each have reached their potential and managed to achieve  _what they want_  and, indeed, sustain relationships with a collection of truly marvellous people – which is considerably better than yourself. I was tactful enough to refrain from comment, but if you persist in buying out cheap whores, I would at  _least_  check yourself for illness; as it is, I’m sure I need not expand on the fact that I am almost entirely certain you currently have gonorrhoea. While I’m sure your masculinity has been more than aptly bruised by Lisa leaving you for another woman – who is quite charming, by the way, and a better parent than you could ever hope to be – I would appreciate your homophobic and alcohol-fuelled comments being curtailed, and for you to leave my home immediately before I allow my children and their requisite partners to destroy the remnants of your life and reputation.”

Absolute silence.

Thunderous applause.

Bond’s arms tightened around his partner, Sherlock’s hand relaxed in John’s, and Mycroft allowed Greg to move a little closer, breathing a long exhale and exchanging a brief smile, before his mother turned, winked, and walked away to get herself a glass of champagne.


	53. Chapter 53

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dear Jen (and Lex!), please will you fix is for me to have a body swap fic between either 00Q or Johnlock? Thanks!! <3 – anon

"As far as I can tell," Bond said, one hand typing madly at a computer, the other grasping a mug of tea to his lips. "All other bodily functions are behaving normally."

John Watson leaned over his shoulder, observing the computer critically. In front of them, Sherlock Holmes sat awkwardly in his underwear, electrodes attached at various points on his body.

"You guys nearly done?" he asked; there was something rather bizarre, hearing an entirely incorrect accent from the usual jaguar-in-a-cello baritone.

With correct vowels, from John’s body: “Shut up, John.”

"James, could you adjust the one on his left temple?" Bond’s mouth asked, as he frowned at the computer. "Only I’m not getting that clear a reading."

James Bond watched the whole proceedings, lounging against the fireplace of 221B. To all the world he appeared nonchalant, like a haughty teenager. He was in fact simply trying to get used to seeing the world through glass frames.

"007?"

Bond nodded, Q’s head moving as he went to Sherlock’s body. John looked up at him, managing to soften Sherlock’s otherwise icy eyes. “How are you faring?” he asked quietly as the two Holmes boys bickered over the readings.

"I feel like I am about to imminently break, and seriously need Q to reconsider his choice in underwear," Bond replied, earning him a swallowed smirk.

“Heard that.”

"Oh my lord," Mycroft stood in the doorway, taking in the scene. He almost left again on the spot. "You honestly weren’t having me on."

"Oddly no," Q replied, sarcastic look managing to smoulder slightly on Bond’s stern features.

"Nice of you to finally move your quivering mass of flesh brother mine," Sherlock said, not looking up.

The expression from John’s lips sounded so comically that both John and Bond ended up in fits. “Any idea as to how this happened?” Mycroft asked, moving over to where Q was curled; only, Bond’s legs were a little too bulky to do so, he had ended up in an odd, cross legged position that looked incredibly uncomfortable.

"Not a clue," Q told him.

Mycroft let out a short sigh. “Ah.”

"Jealous?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow slightly, tangibly confused. “Of what?” he asked, genuinely confused.

"I was under the impression you would give blood to be inside my body," Sherlock replied tartly.

There was an impressive silence.

Q blushed all the way to Bond’s ears – a very odd expression – while Bond managed to remain glassy, and John practically choking.

"I assume you mean due to your weight rather than…" Mycroft tried, Sherlock still not seeing his error. "Unless you mean Dr Watson’s body in which case, he is truly not my…type."

"Please. Stop." Q begged, burying his head in his computer. "God, James, your fingers are so slow!"

"That’s not what you normally say," came the suave return, to everybody’s mild concern. Q’s body didn’t really suit it.

"Would everybody please just shut up and focus on getting brains back into correct bodies?" John pleaded, voice a commanding pitch that called others to quiet.

"Actually the brain never swapped, it appears to be the consciousness that…" Q began.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Shut up and type, Q.”


	54. Chapter 54

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dear Jen (and Lex!), please will you fix is for me to have a body swap fic between either 00Q or Johnlock? Thanks!! <3 – anon

"As far as I can tell," Bond said, one hand typing madly at a computer, the other grasping a mug of tea to his lips. "All other bodily functions are behaving normally."

John Watson leaned over his shoulder, observing the computer critically. In front of them, Sherlock Holmes sat awkwardly in his underwear, electrodes attached at various points on his body.

"You guys nearly done?" he asked; there was something rather bizarre, hearing an entirely incorrect accent from the usual jaguar-in-a-cello baritone.

With correct vowels, from John’s body: “Shut up, John.”

"James, could you adjust the one on his left temple?" Bond’s mouth asked, as he frowned at the computer. "Only I’m not getting that clear a reading."

James Bond watched the whole proceedings, lounging against the fireplace of 221B. To all the world he appeared nonchalant, like a haughty teenager. He was in fact simply trying to get used to seeing the world through glass frames.

"007?"

Bond nodded, Q’s head moving as he went to Sherlock’s body. John looked up at him, managing to soften Sherlock’s otherwise icy eyes. “How are you faring?” he asked quietly as the two Holmes boys bickered over the readings.

"I feel like I am about to imminently break, and seriously need Q to reconsider his choice in underwear," Bond replied, earning him a swallowed smirk.

“Heard that.”

"Oh my lord," Mycroft stood in the doorway, taking in the scene. He almost left again on the spot. "You honestly weren’t having me on."

"Oddly no," Q replied, sarcastic look managing to smoulder slightly on Bond’s stern features.

"Nice of you to finally move your quivering mass of flesh brother mine," Sherlock said, not looking up.

The expression from John’s lips sounded so comically that both John and Bond ended up in fits. “Any idea as to how this happened?” Mycroft asked, moving over to where Q was curled; only, Bond’s legs were a little too bulky to do so, he had ended up in an odd, cross legged position that looked incredibly uncomfortable.

"Not a clue," Q told him.

Mycroft let out a short sigh. “Ah.”

"Jealous?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow slightly, tangibly confused. “Of what?” he asked, genuinely confused.

"I was under the impression you would give blood to be inside my body," Sherlock replied tartly.

There was an impressive silence.

Q blushed all the way to Bond’s ears – a very odd expression – while Bond managed to remain glassy, and John practically choking.

"I assume you mean due to your weight rather than…" Mycroft tried, Sherlock still not seeing his error. "Unless you mean Dr Watson’s body in which case, he is truly not my…type."

"Please. Stop." Q begged, burying his head in his computer. "God, James, your fingers are so slow!"

"That’s not what you normally say," came the suave return, to everybody’s mild concern. Q’s body didn’t really suit it.

"Would everybody please just shut up and focus on getting brains back into correct bodies?" John pleaded, voice a commanding pitch that called others to quiet.

"Actually the brain never swapped, it appears to be the consciousness that…" Q began.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Shut up and type, Q.”


	55. Chapter 55

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hello there, sweethearts! i was reading an amazing mystrade fic when i stumbled in this piece of dialogue: ‘What is it with you and blowing crap up?’ Greg asked. ‘I like it,’ Sherlock grinned. so, obviously, i started wondering if you could write a bondlock fill (with 00Q if possible) in which the mi6 agent and sherlock bond over their love for explosive… :D you are, as usual, the most amazing of all creatures! *3* — fridatwin

Q let out a rabid snarl of irritation. “What is it with you and blowing stuff up?!” he snapped, with tangible aggravation. “I give you nice things. You break everything. _Everything_.”

“Learnt from the best,” Sherlock commented from behind him.

It was not turning into Sherlock’s best day, it had to be said. Bond was wantonly trashing  _everything_ , and Sherlock had decided it was stalk-your-baby-brother-to-work-day, and he was a nightmare even when he wasn’t actively trying to be annoying. “Shut up,” Q griped at him, instead.

Bond laughed, his rich voice bouncing. “Pleasure to hear from you, Sherlock,” he commented on the comms. “How have you been?”

“Superb. Only a single small fire since last we spoke. I understand you outshone all by managing to incinerate most of South Africa?”

“I left some pockets intact,” he returned confidently, betraying very little of the fact that he was flat-out sprinting. “I’m disappointed, only a small…”

“ _Do not encourage each other_ ,” Q snapped. “For god’s  _sake_ , I don’t know what to do with you pair of idiots.”

Bond was grinning – Q could see the man’s face, plastered across his screens – and Sherlock was wearing the smug smirk of one who didn’t care much about being labelled a tosser. “Q, your blood pressure will not survive this level of stress,” Bond commented unhelpfully. “Breathe, as they say.”

“I do not trust MI6 Medical, and I have extremely low blood pressure, you know that. I’ll be  _absolutely_  fine.”

“You have turned an amusing shade of pink,” Sherlock noted.

There was a decent chance that Q was just going to kill them. Honestly, it could be easily construed as a mercy kill, for society at large. “ _Do not blow shit up_ ,” Q yelled. “Both of you. You’re appalling. Appalling and atrocious and  _fuck_  but I hate you both sometimes, do you understand me?!”

Silence, for a moment.

“Q, I’ve just chucked a grenade, I hope you don’t mind.”

“… What?”

Honestly, Q didn’t imagine  _for a moment_  that Bond was being honest.

That was, really, until the lower portent of a building exploding.


	56. Chapter 56

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey big fan high five! I’ve check your blog far more often than is healthy but you’re some of the best fic writers in town :3 I don’t suppose you could write something based on this bondlock video I saw (just add /watch?v=HnRjwh0ta7o&feature=player_embedded on youtube and you should find it) - if it’s possible to get a bit of 00Q angst in there as well I’d be grateful! <3 – luminousrabbitofcaerbannog

Q was shaking slightly, hand trembling as he looked at the body of his brother, and couldn’t breathe for long minutes.

Time extended outwards, indefinitely.

“Q…”

The younger man shook his head, cutting off the almost-words from the man behind him. He didn’t care. Whatever needed to be said could wait, or could not be said at all, because this could have been bloody well avoided if James Bond had  _told the truth_.

At least, Q almost believed that. He  _needed_  to believe that.

Fuck, he had no idea any more.

“My brother’s dead,” he said aloud, as though confirming. As though now, it was real, and he could move on from that fixed point and he would find a way to make it alright. “Shit. I can’t quite believe it. Sherlock’s  _dead_.”

The panic started to cloud in around him. Only quiet, at first, only subtle, but it was there. “Oh  _god_.”

“You didn’t have…”

Q twisted around, literally  _blazing_  with anger. He was beautiful and terrible in moments like this, when the world was burning and Q Holmes stood in the middle of it all and could face down mountains with a few well-placed words, and  _everybody knew it_.

Bond waited.

To his surprise, Q didn’t say a single word.

He stood, and walked towards the door. “Q…”

“ _Not a fucking word_ ,” Q snapped at him, finally at the edge of his tether, snapping, pulling everything down with him and snapping. “Bond, my brother just died. I just arranged for it to happen, actually. I also have discovered that you have  _lied to me_ , quite persistently, for a protracted period of time. I have already spoken to M, and I’m sure he’ll have words, but for now I am  _entirely_  finished with you. I don’t want to speak, hear,  _look_  at you. Goodbye, Bond.”

He left.

The door slammed shut with terrifying finality.


	57. Chapter 57

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your work is wondrous. Could you do one where Bond has to work with one Sherlock Holmes and absolutely hates him. He detests him even more when he finds out that Q, the man he is infatuated with and has been asking out for months, is married to Sherlock and has been for years. Sherlock having previously known about said infatuation is insufferably smug when Bond finds out. Cheers. – bornscreaming

Sherlock Holmes was the incarnation of everything on the planet Bond detested. Arrogant, overbearing,  _ignorant_  in the most horrendous of senses – unable to understand human beings, emotional quirks – and frankly, Bond would have given most of the world to never be required to work with him again for as long as he lived.

Honestly, everything with Q was adding insult to injury.

Bond had always been exceptionally fond of his Quartermaster. The man was a damned genius. Bond could only spend protracted periods of time being extremely enamoured, to the point of mildly frightening, whenever he was present.

And he was married.

Not only was he married – oh no. That would have been bloody  _simple_  in comparison. No. The bastard was married to  _Sherlock Holmes_.

The irony was extraordinary. The epitome of everything Bond hated, juxtaposed with the closest thing to perfection Bond could probably land upon; certainly, Q was very good  _for Bond_ , and he couldn’t quite let that go. There was a sense that Sherlock and Q could thrive independently of one another, while Bond genuinely grew from the sheer being of Q.

He watched them, foot tapping against the ground with surprising force, anger that lived just under the skin and strove for freedom. “Q, you deserve  _better_  than him.”

Q just watched him for a moment, clearly very taken aback. He was quiet for a moment, a contemplative expression that seemed calmer than it transpired to be. “What,” he began, somewhat dangerously, “do you think you mean by saying that there even  _is_  a ‘better’? Sherlock Holmes is one of the most extraordinary men you may ever have the fortune to come across, and fuck knows I deserve that. I deserve somebody brilliant. I  _deserve_  whatever he is, and if you think that’s lacking then you know something, James Bond? I don’t give a  _flying fuck_. Get out of my office, double-oh seven, and I don’t want to hear a bloody word about your opinions of my love life.  _Out_.”

Bond blinked.

“You have five seconds.”

He barely made it in time.


	58. Chapter 58

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’d love a fic where Q is the youngest Holmes + is going off the rails a bit since the death of his parents. He loses his virginity to Bond + Mycroft is so cross that his baby brother’s reputation has been ruined that he makes Bond marry Q - but they do live happily ever after! – anon

"What the hell were you thinking?" Mycroft barked, as Q sat, half dressed on the sofa. He looked thoroughly debauched, hair a mess, body spent and covered in marks.

Q shifted uncomfortably, trying to cover as much of himself as possible as he faced his eldest brother.

Naturally, he didn’t say a word. There was little to say; he had managed a truly wonderful night with a man who was very much out of his league and absolutely gorgeous to boot, and was rather sore and very tired and Mycroft was shouting about reputation of all a sudden, and Q whined slightly and curled up into himself.

At which point, the bathroom door opened, to disgorge a wet-haired James Bond with a towel around his waist.

Bond paused, eyebrows raised as he surveyed the shouting newcomer.

"Can I help you at all?" he asked, looking from Q to Mycroft with amused polietness.

Mycroft glanced at him for a moment, before rolling his eyes. “Wonderful! You not only allow yourself to be ruined, but by an alcoholic and serial womaniser.”

Bond looked mildly surprised, but amusingly unoffended. “Bond. James Bond.”

"Mycroft Holmes."

Now, Bond looked properly concerned. “Sorry –  _Holmes_?”

"Q’s brother."

Bond looked to Q, to Mycroft. Blinked. “Ah. Well. That’s certainly news.”

"Quite," Mycroft replied stiffly.

"James, I’m sorry, he just barged in…" Q tried, kneeling up on the sofa. Mycroft raised a hand, silencing him.

"Are you aware, Bond, of the consequences of your actions?" Mycroft asked, as Bond continued to gaze in mild shock at the pair. "Or who indeed it was that you were…enjoying?"

"I’m beginning to understand," Bond admitted slowly. "I.."

"My brother has a reputation to uphold, as a Holmes," Mycroft informed the pair, somewhat primly. "Thus, the only way I can think of to rectify the situation is to inform you that you will be marrying. Q’s status remains intact, and it’s hardly likely to be a poor move for you, is it, Bond?"

Bond looked for a moment as though he had been hit very hard over the head with something solid. Q just looked distraught. “ _Marry him_?!” the younger man managed, looking from Bond to Mycroft. “I’m not going to marry him, I barely know him!”

"That did not seem to prevent you from sleeping with him," Mycroft pointed out as Bond struggled for words.

"That is…" he managed, eventually, "one of the most bizarre concepts I have ever…"

"I don’t believe I indicated, at any stage, that your consent would be necessary. I will speak to you both in my office this afternoon, once you are fit for company. Do I make myself clear?"

Q nodded. Bond looked shellshocked.

Mycroft walked out.


	59. Chapter 59

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I blame you for the Bondlock! I need some Mystrade also…What about how will the kids react when they know they will have a new uncles, in this case, Lestrade???? Maybe the feel happy or weird Thanks! – anon

John had been accepted as standard: Lily adored him, he adored her. Quite honestly, the man would have spoiled her rotten had Q not occasionally intervened, in the hope of ensuring his daughter didn’t quite reach dangerous levels of manipulative skill.

Hamish and Bond got on well due to the simple fact that Bond had a vast knowledge of weaponry and martial arts. Later, of course, Hamish tolerated the man because he was an extremely useful MI6 connection.

Together, the families worked as well as could be expected. Mycroft remained a standard in all their lives, an all-seeing presence who could be relied upon to settle disputes, arrange cars and – on one memorable occasion - babysit.

Lestrade had been a bit of a surprise; when they all met up together for the first time, Sherlock had known instantly, Q had apologised for both his siblings a moment later, Greg had looked rather alarmed, and Mycroft had come perilously close to blushing.

Ultimately, the police inspector got on best with John and James; it culminated with the three hitting the pub on a bi-monthly basis to moan about their respective Holmes men.

Finally, the time came for Greg to meet the kids.

Lily had been predictably fine with it all: “Uncle Greg!” she had bounced, beaming as the man entered their living room; she dive-bombed a man she only knew through overheard conversations from her parents, and refused to detach until he had hugged her back.

"Is it true you have girls too?" Lily asked abruptly, little faced suddenly earnest and not entirely happy. "Daddy says they are older than me, but…"

"Yes, I’ve got two daughters," Greg told her, as Lily’s delight increased – and then, very suddenly, stopped.

Greg was faced with a  _murderous_ -looking five year old. “Does uncle Mycroft like them?” she asked, with lethal quiet.

"I’m sure you are still his favourite Lil," James assured her, extracting the girl from Greg’s waist and smirking slightly at Greg’s expression. "Now come on, Uncle Greg needs to come and have a coffee…"

"Long day?" she asked brightly, trying to sound as grown up as she could - daddy often drunk coffee on ‘long days’

"Something like that," Greg chuckled, and followed Bond out to the kitchen.

-

Hamish had been silent for about two minutes, staring at Greg with hauntingly familiar eyes, utterly and completely silent.

Then, very simply:

"…He’ll do.”

-

"Just to check," Greg asked later, sprawled on the sofa as Mycroft polished off a crossword.

"Hmmm?"

"You don’t want children, do you?" he asked, trying not to add the note of desperation into his voice.

 Mycroft simply laughed. “You’ve met my niece and nephew?”

"They are certainly something special."

"Indeed they are," Mycroft replied - and paused, for just long enough for Greg to get worried. In the nick of time, he added: "No, Gregory, I have absolutely no intention of reproducing - I don’t believe the world would be able to cope with three of them."

Silently, Greg thanked every god that was listening.


	60. Chapter 60

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hiya! Can I have a Bondlock please, with Q as a Holmes? Sherlock doesn’t have a very high opinion of Q/his job, you can decide why, but I’d like for Sherlock to discover something new about Q, to do with his job, that changes his mind. Totally up to you! Thanks!- anon

“… risking your life for your country – entirely stupid idea, you realise – and doing so through a job that’s entirely pointless and any child with a compsci degree could manage; you could have been working freelance for a company that actually appreciates you, you could have…”

Q tuned out, after a certain point. Sherlock had been harping on the same theme since the moment Q had been tracked down for MI6 work; Q, personally, didn’t really care whether he could have done better. His job was extraordinary, and it certainly was  _not_  as effort-free as Sherlock would have others believe.

He continued, and Sherlock would take the piss from time to time, nd that was fine.

He had een at home when it happened,

Sherlock was busy ranting about something entirely unrelated – Sherlock was always ranting, it was merely a case of working out which rant was being featured on a given day – and Q was sipping a cup of Darjeeling and hoping things would blow over relatively soon.

His phone rang. The work phone. “I have to take this.”

Q lisened, face paling. “Duly noted, I’ll set up a remote connection; I’ll need to hook into the system externally, you should see my footprint when I get in, do not interfere. Any origin or intended destination?”

Sherlock watched with impassive interest, as Q pulled a laptop out of his bag and booted it up; the screen lit, and he was typing almost instantly. “You should see me now. Are we ready?”

A breath, and Q was in motion.

Honestly, he was extraordinary to witness. Sherlock had the good sense to remain silent and inconspicuous as humanly possible, and let Q do his job; the typing abruptly stopped altogether, Q’s eyes ranging over the screen in a moment of suspension before pitching back into battle. “Tell 001 he needs to have his paperwork in, by the way, I’m really bored of chasing him,” he muttered, phone still at his ear, as the typing picked up speed. “Also the prototype… hang on.”

No speech, just work, tongue trapped between teeth. “… sorry, prototype Glock imitations,” Q continued absentmindedly, still working, but content to talk absentmindedly as different parts of his brain split off into work areas. “Alright. R, I think we’re clear for now, get the minions onto the network cleanup and re-heighten security. Find a projected possible destination list, we’ll need to chase the links from any we find, and see if Big Brother in MI5 has anything we should know about.  _Oh_ , I meant to say, I’m nominating you for the next inter-department meeting, I’m not sitting through one of those again. Yep, I know. Thanks R, talk soon.”

Q hung up, let out a breath.

“Tea?” Sherlock offered.

It was simply in the fact of Sherlock bothering to offer that indicated the man was impressed.


	61. Chapter 61

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I know you have a lot of prompts, but I just can’t hold back this prompt, take all the time you need. Bondlock: Mycroft “abducted” James to give him the talk (just like he did with John) [You know is Mycroft’s way to welcome him to the family] James thinks he is being kidnapped, but when he sees Mycroft, Bond thinks they had kidnapped Q. Thank you for the feels!! :D – anon

Bond was finally allowed out of the damned car, in a filthy mood and rather concerned about what on earth he was  _wanted_  for that required him being transported to Battersea Power Station (it was always bloody Battersea Power Station).

Inside waited a man who was rather, ominously, familiar.

“Is he alright?”

There were very times in Mycroft Holmes’s life that he could say he had been honestly confused. This was, quite distinctly, one of them.

“What?”

Bond looked rabid. Frantic and panicked and white-lipped, looking to Mycroft with an unfathomable expression. “Do we have any information? Demands? Status?”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed a little further. “Bond, are you aware of who I am?”

“Yes,  _obviously_  I recognise Mycroft Holmes when I see him,” Bond returned irritably, “and I’ve been with Q long enough to have been informed that you are his elder sibling, which is presumably why you’re telling me rather than anybody else. Mr Holmes, where is Q?”

A raised an eyebrow. “At work, one would presume. He is usually very few places else, unless with your good self.”

Bond paused. “What?”

Mycroft stared. “I believe we may have some error of communication. I am merely here to ask just how serious your relationship with Q is. Judging by the fact that I am assuming you have – for some inexplicable reason – decided that Q is in some form of danger, and have responded with hitherto unheard of levels of melodrama, I think that question has been more than amply answered. Bond.”

“I have been abducted, by Mycroft Holmes, to be asked about my relationship?”

Bond looked somewhere between impressed and contemptuous, with a dash of loathing. “I’ve been concerned for this time, for absolutely no reason?”

Mycroft simply nodded. “I apologise for the confusion and consternation caused. I would proceed to inform you as to what would occur should any harm come to Q, but it would seem entirely superfluous. It’s been a pleasure. You shall be returned to whence you came.”

“Just take me to Q-branch,” Bond muttered. “Pleasure to meet you. I have no doubt we will see more of one another. Goodbye, Mr Holmes.”

“Call me Mycroft.”

Bond nodded. “Mycroft,” and walked away, trying to regain some semblance of dignity.


	62. Chapter 62

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello darlings! Merry Christmas! Hope both of you been ok. Well, i have a little promp if is not much to ask. Soo…in Christmas eve James and Q decided is time to meet each others family and make a big turkey and Q invites Mycroft (and Greg if you pleased), and Sherlock along John and mrs. Hudson; and James invite i don’t know (Mallory or 006 since they are his friends). What happens on dinner is up to you, maybe funny stories of the childhood or so. Thanks for everything guy. Lots of love — queen-of-pudding

Q was terrified.

Bond was terrified.

Alec was just taking the piss out of everything, with Moneypenny very barely managing to contain him; apparently making this entire debacle more difficult was _fun_ , a fact that made Bond feel near enough homicidal.

Mycroft and Greg were mercifully easy-duty. Mycroft was almost compulsively polite, while Greg was a genuinely normal and lovely person. Greg made Bond’s blood pressure return to something near normal, while Mycroft soared everybody’s up a couple of notches simply by being intimidating and in the general vicinity.

Then, of course, Sherlock arrived.

Sherlock was a nightmare, always was, always would be. The child who would throw tantrums and meals across rooms, whom nobody could get through to, who Q nearly murdered when they were quite young by almost-electrocuting him and, every once in a while, couldn’t help but wish his four-year-old self had been just a  _little_  more efficient.

On the bright sides: Bond was cooking, Q was banned from the kitchen, John and Greg could help. Mycroft could too, but had just about enough social knowledge to appreciate that he would probably wind up hindering through overabundance of knowledge.

Q started drinking, along with Mycroft. Sherlock was banned, but would doubtless begin after a while; banning him was merely a way of prolonging the inevitable, which did constitute a start if naught else.

They were all insane.

Alec and John hit it off straight away, while Eve – somewhat oddly – seemed to rather get on with Mycroft. Sherlock looked vaguely petulant and poked John a fair deal, but engaged in general conversation and managed to avoid active hostility.

John vanished to help with roast potatoes; Sherlock and John was accosted by Eve, while Mycroft detached to find Q and tell him, with definite interest, that Eve was a truly fascinating woman.

Q drained his drink, and went into the remarkably calm kitchen to catch up with Greg a bit, and to find his partner.

Q and Bond loved them all. In drastically different ways, of course, but they did love them all.

“Merry Christmas,” they managed, when all around the dinner table, food and drink and general merriment seemingly all present and correct.

Q let out a small sigh of relief, Bond’s hand tight around his. “Merry Christmas,” he agreed, and grinned as he saw Sherlock discard a Brussels sprout, and Eve whack Alec’s hand away from stealing Bond’s potatoes.


	63. Chapter 63

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could I request a fic where Alec goes on a mission and his interrogators repeatedly injected him with heroine or cocaine so he gets addicted, so when he comes back James and Q have to help him detox? – anon

They spent a while in hospital, of course, trying to make Alec’s body remember a world without extremely heavy-duty drugs coursing through his veins, trying to wean him away from a physical addiction, slide him into a state where he could move and exist and  _be_  without anything hurting or his body screaming for something that could kill it.

Afterwards, MI6 just handed him over in the vague hope that his closest friends – Q, and Bond – could perhaps tap into the rest of the psychological addition on a day to day basis. Psych were dealing too, but they were useless bastards at the best of times, and Alec needed help fast.

To everybody’s surprise, Q was extremely well-versed in what to do with somebody heavily addicted to drugs. In fact, so much so that Bond wound up engaging him in a quiet and unashamedly concerned conversation a few days in, trying to establish quite _why_  Q knew as much as he did.

Apparently, he’d had a brother with similar issues.

Either way, Alec was struggling with the simple  _want_. His body was still wrecked – he was on painkillers, but very weak ones to avoid simply transferring the addiction over – and he just wanted everything to stop. The drugs had made that happen. Heroin is a terrible drug for those who simply need physical pain to stop; Alec could bask in the warmth of something that made his mind simply soar for a little while.

Bond and Q wound up taking turns, just staying with him. “Keep the mind active,” Q told Bond at one stage, as Alec dove into a video game with full force. “Keeps away from everything, I’m not sure why. It’s worth a try, anyway.”

Weeks later, time ticking, and Alec was mobile and starting to leave the flat once in a while; Bond and Q were both frightened, Q getting visibly twitchy and panicking, terrified that unsupervised, Alec would and could find suppliers. A very easy thing to do, when in possession of too much information and too much need; Bond placated his partner as best he could, and began spying.

“I know what you’re doing,” Alec told them, voice a little cold. “I know why, too, but _fuck_ , you have to trust me at some point.”

“I’ve done this before,” Q told him, without mercy. “I don’t trust you. It’s not malice, Alec, it’s common bloody sense; you still want them, I can  _see it_.”

Alec tried to deny it; Q simply stormed out of the room, unwilling – unable – to keep having the same arguments. Not again. “He’s trying…”

“I noticed,” Q interjected, trying to make his breathing steady, failing quite spectacularly. “Fuck, James. I don’t think I can do this. I don’t think I can keep on doing this. Sherlock was still trying to track coke down  _six months_  after we thought he was better, he relapses the entire bloody time, and I can’t… James, not with Alec. I can’t watch that happen to him, too.”

Bond pulled him into a hug, the younger man’s body riddled with tension, with anger. “I’m sorry,” Bond breathed to him, Q just shaking his head slightly and bleeding out pain with each breath, wishing there was any goddamn way of making it better.


	64. Chapter 64

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know the majority of Bondlock has Q as the youngest Holmes brother, but I’d love something with him as the Johnlock son. Bond & Q come back from a night out, planning on doing things when they get back, but waiting in the living room is Q’s older sister, Victoria, & in the kitchen are John & Sherlock. Time for James to meet the family! – slytherinqueens

“Oh fuck.”

“Yes,” the woman in the living room agreed, looking over Bond with unapologetic suspicion and arguable dislike. “I would say so. Hello, brother-mine.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bond echoed, almost inaudibly; Q reached back slightly, finding Bond’s hand and sliding his own in.

They hadn’t told Q’s parents, for a very good reason: they would kill him. Bond was a double-oh agent, and they had strenuously objected to Q joining MI6 in the first place; Q’s uncle had been invaluably helpful in diffusing the terrifying amount of familial tension that had erupted upon the initial understanding.

Q sighed slightly, managed a slightly frightened smile. “How’ve you been, Vic?”

“Fine,” Victoria replied, her eyebrow arched eloquently. “I’m with them: you’re an idiot, and a suicidal one at that.”

“Cheers,” Q said lightly, and brushed past her into the kitchen. “Oh,  _shit_.”

“Language.”

John stood in the kitchen, tea in hand, looking at his son.

Sherlock looked like the Grim Reaper incarnate, albeit with a slightly better coat. “When were you planning on telling us?” he asked, voice razor-sharp.

Q blinked, feeling honestly rather frightened. “I… daddy, please don’t look at me like that.”

“Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do,” Sherlock returned instantly, eyes blazing, looking over Bond with something between contempt and loathing. “Again: when were you planning on telling us?”

“James, these are my parents: John, and Sherlock. They’re rather against the idea of me dating somebody with a limited life expectancy and/or a murder record, which is ironic given their relative job and life experiences,” Q explained succinctly, making Bond inwardly wince at the blasé lack of tact, especially as Sherlock’s expression hardened further. “So this is James, and he’s a double-oh agent, and I’m his quartermaster, and we are  _both responsible adults_  who are choosing to be in a relationship.”

From the doorway, Victoria let out a low whistle. “You’re dead. It’s been nice knowing you.”

Q shot her an acerbic glare; Victoria just grinned back, all teeth and attitude.

“James Bond, yes?”

Bond nodded once, slowly. “I assure you, Q and I are aware of the problems that a relationship between us could cause, and I would never hurt…”

John held up a hand. “Believe me, James,” he said, the first-time terms rather frightening if he was being entirely honest, “if you ever hurt my son, between Sherlock and I, we have the means to make your life not worth living. Is that clear?”

“Entirely,” Bond replied sincerely.

John smiled, and held out a hand for Bond to shake. “Pleasure to meet you. Sherlock will take another half-hour to speak to you, don’t worry about him, he’s an idiot. I believe you’ve met Victoria. We were hoping you’d come out to dinner?”

Q’s smile was wary, but genuine. “Sounds lovely dad,” he smiled – Sherlock glared – and turned back to Bond with an expression that clearly read  _thank god_.


	65. Chapter 65

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond sees the scars on Sherlocks back from the Serbian prison so decided to help him with pain relief and cleaning them. – anon

Sherlock had a habit of wandering around naked regardless of company; it was nothing new to his siblings or indeed his flatmate. He just didn’t really care much about clothing an anatomy when it was inconvenient to do so, like in summertime when hot, or because he was burning up a heating bill that neither John nor Sherlock could really afford.

James Bond however, was not in possession of such knowledge. So when Sherlock Holmes meandered out of his room in all his glory, it took years of special agent training not to say anything.

“Morning,” Q greeted, as Sherlock stretched.

Sherlock grunted, moving towards the bathroom.

“So nice of you to come round,” John smiled, watching Bond’s eyes widen, trying to suppress a snort.

 “Tea. Biscuits. Soon,” Sherlock muttered, the door shutting behind him.

As he went, Bond noticed something, the stark, dark lines cutting across the man’s back. He made a mental note to ask about them later, as John stood to retrieve afore-mentioned biscuits and presumably make tea.

 “Ooo John, while you’re up,” Q tried, eyelids batting in a way that was a little surreal on a grown man. 

John smirked. “Earl Grey?”

 “Got any bourbons?” Q asked, watching as John headed for the kettle.

 “Hobnobs or nothing.” 

Q sighed reluctantly, and shrugged. “Hobnobs will have to do,” he said disconsolately, and promptly ate five in quick succession.

Sherlock appeared fairly soon afterwards, in a towel, and entirely ignoring Q and Bond. “Lovely to see you too big brother,” Q said sardonically as Sherlock nodded.

 “You’re not here to see me,” Sherlock said, through a mouthful of biscuit. “Whose body do you want examined?”

“What?” John asked, looking between the brothers.

 “They want to borrow you,” Sherlock drawled, observing them. “For some government reasons I’m sure.”

“As ever, I’m afraid he has a point,” Q admitted, turning to John. “We’ve got a body… well, I say body…”

John and Q were soon engaged in avid discussion, Sherlock vanishing off to the bedroom. In perhaps a foolish move, Bond decided to follow.

“Serbia,” Sherlock told him, not bothering to look around to see who had entered. He was now wearing pants at least, though little else. “Torture. Not the most delightful of experiences.”

Bond looked over the indent with quiet, almost sad understanding. “Still painful.” 

“Naturally, a man was carving my back,” Sherlock replied acerbically.

 “Do you need a hand?” Bond asked.

Sherlock froze, looking him up and down. “I’m flattered…but I really don’t think Q would approve,” he said slowly.

“Not like that,” Bond told him, rolling his eyes. “I just happen to know what I am doing.”

“I live with a doctor,” Sherlock pointed out. “I sleep with a doctor…”

“Some things you don’t want them to see.”

Sherlock watched him, jaw set, steady and tangibly suspicious; he paused, before nodding rather curtly. Bond knew the feeling. The shame living under the skin, feeling marked, tainted by an experience. Not to mention that very few people really appreciated the pain itself, regardless of medical training.

“Thank you,” Sherlock muttered, a bitten-off sound that both – for the sake of Sherlock’s pride – would merrily go on pretending had never happened.


	66. Chapter 66

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ((Don’t read/fill if you haven’t seen Sherlock S3)) But if you have, I want to ask you amazing writers to do me a solid. In His Last Vow, can we have Q being the one who broadcasts Moriarty’s image just so Sherlock can come back. Q then meets with Sherlock (always secretly) and tells him that he gave him a second chance at life and to use that to let go of John and find someone worthy of his love. Maybe in the end Sher meets Alec (or whoever) and maybe sparks fly. Oh god I need the fluff. – q-branchcafe

Q let out a breath, drank his tea. “It was you,” Sherlock realised aloud, nursing a bucket of coffee himself, looking rather perturbed. “You… does Mycroft know?”

“No,” Q returned, easily enough. “This was an entirely solo venture, and if word ever gets out that it was myself who was the cause, I will destroy your life quite completely.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Filial affection is an excellent thing.”

“Quite,” Q returned, a little primly, before his smile became a shadow more genuine. “Sherlock – I didn’t bring you back for my benefit. I could live a long and happy life with you wherever you wound up. You’re here so you can get a grip, move on from John, and not kill anybody else. I know you love him, I get that. He’s  _married_. Happily so, more or less, and Mary is a good woman.”

To Q’s relief, Sherlock’s expression didn’t change; he, of all people, understood the difference between past and present. Mary had given everything, for John. Lied, certainly, but it hardly negated what she brought to John.

Mary was what John wanted.

“He still cares for me,” Sherlock reminded Q. “He…”

“Yes, but please try and accept the point I’m making rather than intentionally being obtuse,” Q interjected, before Sherlock could finish. “Go home. I’ll throw up a few Moriarty-related leads to keep you occupied, and then you can stay in the UK, I’m working on getting you a special dispensation which will have  _nothing to do with me_ , do I make myself clear?”

Sherlock looked over him, nodded, very slowly. “Why?” he asked, very quietly.

They were not close. Q had divorced himself from the Holmes legacy, from their name and from their way of seeing the world. Mycroft and Q only spoke in an official capacity, and Sherlock hadn’t actually seen his sibling in person in about three years. It seemed… odd, that he would risk everything.

“Sentiment,” Q told him, after a moment.

All of Sherlock’s brothers seemed to be suffering from that particular defect recently, it seemed.

There was little else to say: “Thank you,” Sherlock told him, with honesty that surprised even him. “Truly, Q. Thank you.”

“Don’t overdo it,” Q smirked, and drained his tea happily. “You’re an idiot.”

“Apparently so,” Sherlock returned drily. “I assume you have people to go kill?”

“Near enough,” Q replied, with a rather frightening grin. “Take care, ‘lock. Be safe, if you can.”

Sherlock smirked, drank more coffee. “Goodbye, ‘Q’.”

It was astonishing, just how fast Sherlock’s baby brother could vanish quite entirely into the streets, be swallowed up, and never be seen again.


	67. Chapter 67

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q As Third Holmes brother? Perhaps all three are discussing Q’s career choice? – anon

“… moronic idea, you’re going to remain the target of the types of people who make even me concerned…”

Mycroft, mercifully, was just about as opposed; he, however, didn’t have a leg to stand on given that he was also a governmental lynchpin. Instead, he spent a good deal of his time looking judgemental and angry while Q continued merrily enough from day to day as the goddamned Quartermaster of MI6.

Q tended to drink a lot of tea and looked very put-upon when the conversation inevitably turned to his choices; his brothers, despite their own very moronic decisions and life choices, would make his own life vaguely unpleasant for a while. “I  _like_  my job,” Q pointed out, at one stage.

“You’re going to be  _killed in it_.”

“Says the man who has actually been shot in his own career!” Q pointed out to Sherlock, with tremendous aggravation. “In order, or thereabouts: beaten up more times than I can count,  _massive_  drug addiction, blew up a bedsit, overdose, held at gunpoint, nearly throttled, faked your own death, tortured by Serbian terrorists, shot, deported. Am I missing anything?!”

“The degree of threat in between each event, and a poisoning or two,” Mycroft supplemented drily, making Q briefly wave his hand in tremendous annoyance. “Nevertheless, Q, you are the youngest of…”

“I’m only five years younger!” Q managed, with so much annoyance he had to put down his tea. “Sherlock had been in rehab,  _twice_ , by my age. And the bedsit incident had happened.”  
“That was an  _accident_.”

Mycroft and Q had identical expressions of vague contempt. “No shit,” Q muttered, and retrieved his tea; with a touch more control, he added: “I am good at my job, safe in my job, have yet to be injured in my job. Truly, the pair of you cannot ask for more than that.”

“Programming…”

“Is desperately dull,” Q completed, as he did every time it was brought up. “I am creating, programming, hacking – I get to do everything. I won’t be talked out of this one, either of you. Please. Just  _drop it_.”

A few moments of companionable silence trickled past. “Who are you dating, by the by?” Mycroft asked casually.

Sherlock spat out his coffee, stared at Q with utter wildness while Q closed his eyes slightly and lamented his sibling. “Really, Myc?” he asked, a touch weakly. “You  _had_ to go there. Couldn’t just leave it well enough alone…”

“ _Who_?!”

 Mycroft worked it out. Q had no idea how. “An agent, obviously,” he mused, “and given the level of tidiness that you’re exhibiting – same effect as Sherlock had when John became involved – I would deduce military background. Active agent, potentially a dangerous one, but I will prelude this by informing you that if I discover you are dating a double-oh agent, I will be extremely far from amused.

In real terms: Mycroft would probably kill them.

Q sighed. May as well get it over with.

“Double-oh seven,” he told them, somewhere between weakly and proudly, and watched as Mycroft’s face hardened into a lethal rictus and Sherlock  _growled_.


	68. Chapter 68

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I really love your writing but I was wondering, could you do a fix where baby!Q comes home to a toddler!Sherlock and a little but older Mycroft please??? – anon

Mycroft was twelve years old, and he felt probably the single most important in the entire world barring absolutely none as he carried his baby brother into the house.

Sherlock was, of course, playing havoc in the corner; he had apparently dug out all of the lego, even the complex ones Mycroft was rather possessive over, and proceeded to build everything; their babysitter was a lovely girl who lived down the street, who had babysat Mycroft when he was younger and seemed to be able to cope with the Holmesian eccentricities.

Mummy Holmes was exhausted but happy, calling over her middle son fondly and letting Mycroft hold him out slightly for Sherlock’s perusal. “This is your baby brother,” she told them, with an almost impossible degree of love.

Sherlock looked over the baby.

The baby looked over him.

They had the same eyes, and identical shocks of jet-black hair. “You boys will need to look after him,” their father told them, quietly amused by the boys’ responses to the baby. “He’s a lot littler than you are. Can you be responsible around him?”

“Yes,” Mycroft breathed, almost reverentially.

Sherlock glanced between Mycroft and the baby, and essentially made up his mind as to which he preferred: the latter was small and a potential co-conspirator, where Mycroft was an established presence and played the ‘older brother’ card far too often.

A simple decision. Sherlock would protect the new Holmes until the end of his life.

Mycroft was of a rather similar bent, only was very aware of his previous commitment to Sherlock; he would have to split energy, but already knew how, knew Sherlock would be difficult and this new one was a random factor.

“Does he have a name?” Sherlock asked, with just a dash of annoyance.

Their mother shook her head slightly. “Not yet. We’re still deciding.”

“Does he get a silly name?”

Both Holmes parents snorted: “Yes, Myc.”

“ _Mycroft_.”

“Mycroft. Yes, he does. He’s a Holmes.”

Sherlock grinned with smug satisfaction, and Mycroft just cradled the baby to him, until his mother prised him away to put him – and herself – to bed.


	69. Chapter 69

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> can I have a Q as the third holmes who was in league with moriarty and is the one who set up all the “did you miss me” things because he’s taken moriarty’s job (moriarty is still dead), please? – isthisrubble

Q smiled slightly.

Chaos was a lot more enjoyable when one did not require a face, far less an identity; Q had always been waiting for this moment, quite frankly. This had always been on the edges of possibility, Jim’s death was annoying but unsurprising and not even that upsetting – Q had been hurt by Jim Moriarty often enough to find it far from the worst thing in the world to happen – and so he left the man to rot and took over his empire without further ado.

It was easy, actually. Honestly, truly easy.

Jim’s image, everywhere, across every surface. Jim was a tosser, but he made for an exceptionally good frontman while Q sauntered off stage left; nobody would ever be able to see the obvious, and Q liked that.

He set the strings in motion, and Sherlock Holmes danced to his tunes, now.

Q was honestly looking forward to seeing how matters progressed with Sherlock Holmes. He had been Jim’s favourite toy, his favourite everything, a plaything and a perfect combatant – and, now, Q’s.

It was a lot of fun, Q had to concede. Sherlock was back in the country within a matter of minutes, having barely left, and the British Government was completely and hilariously panicking in a way that Q could witness tracing across his screens; phone calls and conversations and texts and emails and it was  _hilarious_ , Q couldn’t quite stop laughing at it all.

They were all absurd.

It was simple enough to mix up enough of Jim’s voice for the purpose:  _Hello Holmes boys. Isn’t this fun_?

Sherlock took the bait. Phoned the number he had of Jim, once upon a dream, and Q watched the phone ring and smiled at the ceiling; they would try and track it now they knew it was live, Q could already see them starting to place out feelers.

Of course, Sherlock was more  _hands-on_. Sherlock thought the technological aspects were dull.  _Sherlock_  thought the empire was dust and that Serbia was important. Sherlock was  _wrong_ , and Q loved the expression he caught on cameras, Sherlock’s confusion and Mycroft’s veiled anger and Doctor Watson looking cross.

Delightful.

Q leant back, and pressed a few keystrokes.

A building exploded.

Q just watched the phones ring, and laughed.


	70. Chapter 70

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We have a lot of Bondlock. I would totally adore if Q and Greg are step-brothers who have no idea how to really treat each other but band together immediately when an outside force is about to threaten them. And Greg maybe loses his DI position but Mallory totally gets him into MI6 because Q makes good points about him and then Q and Greg mess with the Double Ohs, because they are too obnoxious to Q and never even suspect the not-my-division newbie? – adsumcirrat

Q glanced at his brother, and nodded a hello, grinning as he saw the way everybody around looked somewhere between horrified and mildly alarmed.

Nobody knew Q had a brother. Half-brother, but he was trying valiantly to let go of that particular epithet and let Greg actually  _be_  for a little while; he had been incredibly better, resentful, as a small child. It was about time he let some of it go.

Greg raised his hand back in a slightly nervous wave.

MI6 was definitely an intimidating place to have ended up. After the demotion from the police, Greg had been left entirely uncertain of where he would go, what he would do; abruptly, he got a call from his long-estranged brother, informing him he had an interview with MI6. Not a big role, no, but there were facets of all mission planning that needed somebody with Greg’s type of experience.

It was very weird, working with Greg; Q liked him, he was fun to be around. It was taking a little time to grow accustomed to, but Q was a lot older than when he had last tried to really connect with his brother.

Greg adored Q, thought he was brilliant, and honestly considered MI6 the best place he had ever worked in his life. Q even let him stay in the flat (along with Q’s longterm partner, who had been both terrifying and charming when Greg met him) while Greg’s divorce went through.

Meeting Mycroft Holmes happened by accident.

Q and Mycroft knew one another fairly well, and Bond had known Mycroft for years; he had been close to his M, now deceased, and considered Mycroft the highest authority available in almost any given context.

“Mycroft, this is Greg, my brother,” Q said, absentmindedly waving.

Several things happened at once.

Greg nearly stopped breathing, because Q had called him his ‘brother’ rather than ‘half-brother’.

Mycroft was rendered entirely speechless.

Q inhaled his tea at the sight of Mycroft’s expression.

Bond snorted audibly.

At which stage Mycroft hit Bond with his umbrella, Q choked loudly and had to be rescued by a slightly winded Bond, and Greg noticed Mycroft Holmes and went a little bit dry-mouthed.

“Mycroft Holmes.”

“Greg Lestrade,” Greg managed back, and Bond quickly got Q out of the way before he intervened, and ruined everything.


	71. Chapter 71

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hi! i’m sure you’re sick of hearing this right now, but i love love love your writing. could you write a fic about how moriarty and Q are siblings? Q gets kidnapped and moriarty somehow hears about it. he goes all how-dare-you-hurt-my-brother-only-i-could-hurt-my-brother on the kidnappers. bonus if Q’s mad that moriarty came before james did. – anon

“Boys, boys,  _boys_.”

Q couldn’t help a small smirk. Help had finally deigned to show up – albeit not as he had expected – in the form of his rather frightening and ruthlessly efficient elder brother.

Jim was two years Q’s senior, and honestly, Q did adore him. He was the single most terrifying person Q knew in the entire world,  had absolutely no morality and precious little perspective, but he had a possessive streak – if not a loving one – which meant that Q was safe from most of the evils of the world without any questions being asked.

As it was, Jim was currently getting Seb to very literally disembowel Q’s captors, because they’d beaten Q up a little while trying to extract information. “Never touch family, tut tut,” Moriarty murmured, voice bouncing with lyricism, before twisting towards Q himself. “Now, baby brother, would you like to tell me how you could be this stupid?”

The last was a languid drawl, the strange Irish accent Jim had picked up in university lingering, his calling-card. “Standard abduction. I’m not quite sure where my bloody errant boyfriend is, it has to be said.”

One of Q’s abductors let out a frantic, sobbing scream that both boys ignored; Jim even seemed to visibly calm at the sound of it, letting out a small sigh of satisfaction, grin all teeth and all predatory. “I’ll be having words.”

“You will  _not_ ,” Q contradicted sharply, lips twitching into a grimace at the eloquent snap of bone and the consequent atonal scream; some dying men somehow had the ability to sound almost melodic in pain, while these words – brutes that they were – seemed intent on making rather nasty screeching noises.

“Your cleanup,” Jim pointed out.

Q glanced at the devastation, and groaned. “Please,  _pretty_  please Jim, don’t land me with the cleanup for this one,” he pleaded. “Seb’s made a complete bloody  _mess_ , and I’ll have to explain all of it. I’ll owe you one.”

“Two,” Jim corrected with mock-sternness. “I didn’t have to come to the rescue.”

Q wrinkled his nose slightly, mildly disgusted at the concept. “Sometimes,” he muttered, ”you are ridiculously unfair. You’d have never let them  _keep_  me, anyway.”

“ _Q_?!”

Moriarty wheeled around, his head moving in a circular convulsion before settling on the figure who had finally deigned to enter. “Took your time,” Q snapped at him. “For god’s sake, they were beginning to escalate.”

“What happened?!” Bond asked, with transparent disbelief; Seb looked up from his rather neat arrangement of the various corpses, nad gave Bond a companionable and fairly friendly nod.

Jim grinned, extended a hand. “Jim Moriarty,” he purred.

“ _Do not take his hand,”_ Q stated urgently; Bond withdrew his, before Moriarty had the chance to dispatch him with an easily dispersed palm-concealed venom. “Jim,  _behave_. Bond, I’ll be having words.”

“I’m confused.”

Moriarty’s grin turned lethal. “Doesn’t take much,” he sung with slow, almost hypnotic unkindness.

He was terrifying.

Q took Bond’s arm, and led him away, before anything escalated.


	72. Chapter 72

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bondlock prompt. James helped Mary defect the CIA. In fact, it was him who introduced Mary to John. They both invite him to the wedding. James brings Q as his date. Snark between Q and Sherlock and John finding out that there’s a third Holmes brother. As they implied in the series, Sherlock is not only a consulting detective, but as consulting MI6 agent as well. — party-in-the-blue-box

“My god,  _James_.”

Mary put her glass of extremely nasty champagne down on the table, and all but flew at James Bond; he grinned, letting the excitable bride practically knock him over. “I’m so sorry we couldn’t get to the ceremony itself,” Bond explained quickly, with another call of greeting to an equally joyous John. “ _Someone_  had work.”

Bond nodded at the young man he had with him: skinny, bespectacled, could have been Sherlock’s sibling in another lifetime given the life sparking behind his eyes and the way he looked at John and Mary. “My congratulations, and my apologies – James was duly furious, I can assure you.”

“John, Mary – this is my partner, Q.”

John glanced over Q, over Bond, and made no comment. “Good to meet you, Q,” he said instead.

Mary just decided to hug Q, much as she had Bond. “I haven’t heard nearly enough about you,” she teased, looking at Bond with a mildly chastising glare; she and Bond had been quite close ever since the CIA debacle, and Mary had even been treated to stories and the side-suggestion that he had a male partner these days. “Quartermaster, aren’t you?”

Q returned a quietly confident nod, looking Mary over with a tangible sense of assessment, and apparently finding her worthwhile. “I am indeed. Your reports are extraordinary…”

“…  _Q?_!”

In an instant, Q straightened, his expression becoming curiously contorted as he looked over at the newcomer. “Yes, hello,” he managed, the smile so pleasant it was acidic. “A pleasure to see you too, brother-mine.”

“ _Brother_?!”

John was gaping, Mary’s eyes were saucer-wide, and Bond’s expression had become rather closed and near enough unreadable. “You’re…” John managed, trailing off slightly. “You have another brother?!”

“What the  _hell_  are you doing here?” Sherlock snapped at Q, who just raised an eyebrow at him.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a perfectly lovely wedding taking place,” he returned drily, before turning back to Bond and the newlyweds. “My apologies, I didn’t quite anticipate what a shock this would be – yes, I am Sherlock’s younger brother. I am not the most  _liked_  of the Holmes siblings, shall we say, by virtue of my career choice.”

John looked like he had been hit very hard over the head with a two by four. “Fuck,” he managed. “There are  _three of you_.”


	73. Chapter 73

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know you are busy but if you can, could you write a prompt where mi6 sends bond in to test sherlocks skills as a client who has a kidnapped lover. The whole time q stays silent about being sherlocks brother – anon

Bond settled casually opposite, with an air of tension just about visible; Sherlock glanced over him, eyes narrowing very faintly.

John was a little bit bored, if he was quite honest. It had been a very, very slow week. The fridge was a toxic wasteland.

“What does an MI6 agent want from me?”

John perked up a bit. Bond’s expression crinkled ever so slightly. “Excuse me?”

Sherlock’s eyes rolled dramatically. “Posture is military, callouses on the hands, dress style, deliberate and well-timed movement. Your gaze flicks around, documenting, and your hand itched to your jacket when I stated your profession. Division?”

“ _Bond, that was atrocious. You should be ashamed of yourself. You’re a damned undercover agent_.”

A small smirk: “Do please take your earpiece out, I find them irritating,” Sherlock drawled.

Bond, very simply, shook his head. “Absolutely not. I have my quartermaster here, and he’s observing all this.”

“A detached presence.”

“Q is perpetually thus.”

John’s mouth fell open a little. “John, try for subtlety, I know it’s a strain.”

Sherlock may have been an excellent detective, but Bond equally spent his life observing other human beings: “Quite  _why_  is ‘Q’ causing so much consternation?”

“ _007, that’s enough_.”

“Have I just been deployed on a mission without being given all necessary information?” Bond continued, voice beginning to rise a little with unmistakeable anger. “Q? Is that correct?”

Sherlock had a truly spectacular smile. “Q is my youngest sibling,” he drawled.

“What?”

“ _Shit._ ”

“I’m going to kill you,” Bond snapped at Q.

“ _I’m going to kill him_ ,” Q returned, sounding furious and weary in equal measure. “ _Alright, Bond. You’re pulled. Get back to HQ, and tell my brother I’ll see him this evening_.”

Bond passed on the message, shook his head slightly – genuinely, he was going rip into Q the moment he saw the man – and made his farewells, Sherlock grinning after him like a demented Cheshire Cat the entire way.


	74. Chapter 74

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Absolutely loving all the prompts! If you get the chance, I’d love teen!lock looking after drunk teen!Q whilst making sure the Holmes parents don’t find out. Bonus points if you can add in Sherlock teasing Q in the morning when Q has a hangover :) Thanks! – theres-always-anoffswitch

Q was giggling, pawing at Sherlock’s front with absolute lack of coordination, intermittently bleating that he was ready to go out again, and  _please ‘lock I want to have fun_  and Sherlock snorting to himself while Q began to slowly diffuse, nuzzling into Sherlock’s chest and looping arms around his big brother’s chest.

He yawned slightly, while Sherlock remained practically frozen in place, a little discomfited by Q’s physical intimacy. Sherlock did  _not_  do demonstrative affection, not like this. “Q,  _off_.”

“But  _Sherlock_ …”

“ _Shh_ ,” Sherlock said quickly, placing a finger against Q’s lips; Q appeared to find it  _hilarious_ , and promptly pretended to bite Sherlock’s finger, misjudging it and delivering a rather nasty bite. “Fucking _ow_ , Q.”

“ _I’m sorry_ ,” Q bleated, far louder than he should have been; Sherlock cursed fluently in more than one language, and tried to impress upon his youngest brother that it was a Very Bad Idea to let their parents discover that a fifteen-year-old had gotten himself absolutely smashed at a party that he wasn’t supposed to have been at, and had crawled through the window to Sherlock’s room at two in the morning and was now proceeding to risk waking the entire damned house. “Forgive me, ‘lock…”

“I will,” Sherlock negotiated, “if, and  _only if_ , you’re absolutely quiet from now on.”

Q’s eyes were huge, reminding Sherlock of a far younger incarnation of his little brother.

He nodded, and, a moment later, giggled again.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as Q pitched forward, once again assaulting Sherlock in an abortive attempt at a hug; he yawned against Sherlock’s front. “’Lock, I don’t feel well,” he whined against Sherlock’s chest.

In an instant, Sherlock had Q over a bin, vomiting impressively into it and filling the room with the unfortunate stench of alcohol and vomit.

Q remained like that for a few minutes, beginning to get upset, crying slightly to himself as he retched. “Sherlock…”

“It’ll be alright,” Sherlock soothed, keeping Q’s hair out of his face. “Can you make it to my bathroom?”

It was damned fortunate that Sherlock had an ensuite; Q gave a whimpering sound, and let Sherlock guide him in, Sherlock shaking his head as Q vomited into the bath instead, before near enough toppling into it. “Q, we need to get you cleaned up,” Sherlock sighed, and began trying to get his brother out of his now vomit-spattered clothing. “I’ll get you some water in a moment…”

Q had been reduced to petulant groans and whining under his breath, sobbing and whimpering in equal measure, letting Sherlock do practically whatever he liked while mumbling uncoordinated apologies and ignoring Sherlock’s valiant attempts to make Q just  _shut up_.

It took nearly an hour for a damp, unconscious Q to wind up in bed, newly-scrubbed bin by the bedside, just in case.

-

Q woke up wanting to die, a little bit.

“Water on the bedside,” a voice told him; Q did as bidden, arms feeling very weird. “How do you feel? Good night? I bet you had a  _lot_  of fun, ready to hit the ground running today…”

Q let out a long groan.

Sherlock was going to be a  _nightmare_.


	75. Chapter 75

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> love you guys’ work! I’ve had a tough time recently and everything’s been getting on top of me, so I’d love a fic where Q overworks himself and Mycroft forces him home to the holmes place and takes care of him, please! – anon

“Mycroft,  _sod off_ , I have work to do…”

Mycroft was inches away from administering heavy-duty sedatives in an attempt to make Q just lie down and stop being a veritable nightmare about his work. The man hadn’t slept in living memory, wasn’t eating properly, and was starting to have problems with sobbing in the middle of the working day just out of sheer stress and exhaustion. Mycroft had received a call from a not-very-happy R who had insisted that Q needed help, and while Bond was out of the country, Mycroft was the only person she could think of

Thus, Mycroft was interrupting his work to deal with his baby brother, who was half-hysterical and looked like absolute hell incarnate. “You need rest, and you’re going to  _have_  rest,” Mycroft told him firmly.

Q batted at him vaguely. “ _Let me out of this car_.”

“No,” Mycroft returned simply, and the driver continued on to the Holmes estate; Q made some attempts at argument, before essentially passing out.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, and pushed Q’s hair out of his face with feather-light movements, ensuring Q didn’t do damage to his neck with a neck support he had brought for the purpose, and Q didn’t wake up for the entirety of the two-hour drive.

When they got home, Q looked vaguely surprised, very uncoordinated. “Myc, where are we?” he mumbled, and tried to walk a bit; he stumbled badly, toppling into Mycroft, who supported him with a small smile: he remembered his brother when he was younger, both brothers, doing ridiculous things and needing his help.

It was almost nice, to realise he could still be a big brother. That he could, and would, still be able to help his siblings regardless of how old they got, the things they did. Sherlock, a detective of great repute these days. Q, the Quartermaster of MI6.

His brothers were truly extraordinary.

“Let’s get you into bed,” Mycroft coaxed, as an almost tearful Q leant on Mycroft for support “I’ll have some tea for you when you wake up.”

Q was tipped into his bed, Mycroft helping him slide off trousers and work shirt, glasses removed and folded carefully, snuggling into a huge duvet, asleep within seconds.

Mycroft fetched a glass of water to place on the bedside, and just watched Q for a moment; his brother had grown up so much, but still looked like a teenager, like a child, in moments like this.

“Sleep well,” he murmured to Q, and slipped out of the room.


	76. Chapter 76

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi, me again :( I’d really like to see a fill of this, please: The Holmes is a slightly dysfunctional family of 5 sorcerers. Dad being the most powerful sorcerer around works away keeping the world safe and Mommy is busy with MI6 matters. So it falls to the eldest brother Mycroft, take care of his brothers: Sherlock, a willful boy with too much power and no common sense, and Q, the youngest, a total geek and hacker of magical and computer networks. Sorry for the inconvenience. You both are great – anon

“That is  _quite enough_.”

Sherlock, this time, had managed to blow up most of the left side of the house; Mycroft had sworn under his breath, and immediately needed to reconstruct said wing, which was absolutely exhausting and annoyingly time-consuming when Mycroft was attempting to work and do almost  _anything_  other than constantly have to ensure his brother wasn’t destroying things.

“I didn’t mean to,” a fourteen-year-old Sherlock told him, all eyes and lies; Mycroft raised an eyebrow in transparent disbelief. “Alright, I did. But Myc…”

“Don’t even think about it,” Mycroft warned. “Mummy will be hearing about this. She can decide what to do with you, I don’t want to think about it any more.  Go to your room, and stay there.  _Don’t_  go and annoy Q.”

Of course, telling Sherlock not to do something was probably the fastest way to ensure that he did; Q glanced up, his older brother swinging around the doorframe. “’Lo,” he said lightly; he was nine, already prodigiously talented with technology of all descriptions. “Was that you?”

Sherlock almost found it impressive; the noise had been spectacular, the destruction spreading across half the estate, and Q had somehow managed to blithely ignore it. “Yeah,” Sherlock said unapologetically, chucking himself onto Q’s bed. “His fault though.”

“You miss him,” Q noticed, brow crumpled slightly. “When he’s away. You miss him  _lots_.”

“Course,” Sherlock returned sulkily, staring at Q’s ceiling. “Don’t you?”

Q shrugged slightly. “He always comes back,” he said simply, seemingly calm, in a way Sherlock just didn’t understand; it was  _Mycroft_ , it was the person Sherlock had always been striving to emulate. His loss wasn’t just  _nothing_ , it was  _important_. He didn’t even  _like_  Mycroft, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want his brother to be there.

“He’s still a prat.”

Q giggled, looking somewhere between delighted and scandalised at the insult, childish features crinkly and excitable. “Yeah,” he grinned. “Myc always is. Prat.”

“Idiot.”

“ _Goldfish_.”

Both collapsed. Mycroft had ranted barely the previous week about how everybody in the whole world was  _so slow_  and he was  _so quick_  and they were all  _goldfish_  and he was a  _pike_  and Sherlock had said he was a jellyfish and Mycroft had nearly levelled the dining room as magic peeled off his skin and attacked full-force at the insults.

Q returned sudden attention to his screen, and pressed the pads of two fingers to a small part of the screen; light throbbed under his skin, and Q smiled as it infected whatever he was trying to do, so beautiful. “You’re going to be very powerful,” Sherlock noted.

Honestly, Q didn’t care. He loved what he was doing, he  _enjoyed_  it. The relative levels of ‘power’ were unimportant, as long as he could still slide his own thoughts between the cracks in communications and find out worlds, the way he could, the way he did.

“Nothing like you,” Q reminded, making Sherlock grin with a certain cocky arrogance. “Lock, go, before Mycroft gets cross.”

Sherlock grinned, and shadowed out the room, about twenty seconds before Mycroft arrived.


	77. Chapter 77

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond knows that Q is extremely fed up with him not returning the weapons intact so he gets scared when R or a minion tells him that Q is packing and no one knows when he’ll be back. Bond thinks he quitted, finds him in America, and is desperate to make Q return to MI6 and unknowingly ruins Qs undercover mission with one of Moriarity’s intelligent dealers. – anon

“What in the  _ever loving fuck_  are you doing here?!” Q snapped at him, voice tight and terrifyingly strained. “Get out. Go away.  _Now_. Absolutely now, or I swear, I will kill you. I am not kidding.”

Bond ignored him, of course. “Q, you don’t understand…”

“ _Do not call me that_.”

“I don’t  _know_  your real name.”

“Call me John, if you would.”

Bond raised an eyebrow, eyes slightly narrowed. “ _John_?! You’re kidding me? I assumed it was something humiliating…”

“I’m going to  _destroy_  you. Leave. I’m busy, I am  _busy_.”

“Q?”

Q’s expression had completely frozen, into something that resembled absolute blanket terror. “You fuck, Bond. You absolute… you have a gun on you, yes?”

“Yes, I swear I didn’t destroy it…”

“Good. You’re about to have to use it.”

Bond didn’t have very long to contemplate what in the hell was  _meant_  by that; the shooting began near enough instantly, Q and Bond drawing out their guns in almost unison to manage some very neat shooting off into the wide blue yonder. It became extremely clear immediately that anything moving was probably a target; Q intermittently shot livid glances at Bond, who simply didn’t understand.

In a heap in Q’s hotel room, and Bond reached out for his absolutely  _livid_  lover. “Q…”  
“I was  _undercover_.”

“What?!”  
“My name is  _not_  John.”

Bond grinned. “I  _knew it_.”

“That,” Q hissed, “is  _not the point_. I hate you, Bond. I was trying to get a very delicate deal done, I went on a  _bloody_  plane for this, and it’s all been blown. Moriarty. James Moriarty. I was the closest anybody has been to closing a decent deal with him for  _years_. I cannot express how angry I am with you.”

Bond gaped slightly, blinking oddly, half-framing words and failing spectacularly. “I thought you’d left MI6.”

Q turned to look at him, with deliberate slowness, and active sarcasm. “Yes, I’d leave the best job I’ve had in my life. Why the  _fuck_  would I do that?”

“I kept breaking your things.”

Q’s sarcasm scaled up a notch, impressively enough. Bond hadn’t known it was possible. “Even better: I’d leave the best job I’ve had in my life,  _because of you_. Arrogant fuck. You’re going to be explaining this to M, you realise, I’m damned if I’m going to have to do it. Do I make myself clear?”

There was very little option but to nod awkwardly, and hope for M’s non-existent mercy.


	78. Chapter 78

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you be opposed to doing some Bondlock spanking? Maybe Q messing up in some way and having to report to Mycroft to be punished. Just big brother taking care of little brother, no sexual element. – anon

"This is ridiculous," Q commented, unbuckling his belt with the expression of a petulant child. Understandable, but not precisely helpful.

Mycroft sat, eyebrow raised as he watched the Quartermaster of MI6 remove his trousers. “You endangered the lives of five agents, and lost a vital chance at making contact with a mark,” Mycroft replied calmly, as Q picked up his trousers and folded them neatly on the chair next to him.

"I am twenty-six years old!"

 ”Would you prefer a disciplinary hearing?” Mycroft asked politely.

"…No.”

Q was sulking, definitely sulking; the man had absolutely no subtlety in the slightest, never had. “Your punishment was handed over to me in the belief that whatever I will be able to exact will be far more lasting than any panel,” Mycroft told him as Q walked over.

"You make it sound like they are expecting you to abuse me," Q muttered darkly.

"I would probably have leeway, yes," Mycroft commented darkly, smirking a little at Q’s expression. "As it stands, I believe this will be sufficient."

Q sighed, and lay over his elder brother’s lap.

It was humiliating. Their father had not been much of a man for punishment, which had proved a tremendous difficulty in Sherlock’s case. The duty had therefore fallen to Mycroft to disciple his siblings.

Sherlock had spent more days with a red arse than not throughout his teen years; Q, on the other hand, had been the picture of good behaviour. He had been spanked a grand total of three times in his life, and the event had left a distinct impression on the man.

Mycroft recognised this, and had therefore elected to continue the punishment into Q’s professional life as the simplest and most effective deterrent possible.

It wasn’t simply the sharp pain, it was what it represented. Q was the good boy, the well behaved child. He was not spanked - that was Sherlock’s domain. And in that instant, he found himself nine again - having just broken his peer’s calculator and in Deep Trouble.

Q didn’t want to think about just how red he must have been by the time Mycroft was done.

“I’m hoping very hard this situation won’t have to repeat itself,” Mycroft told his sibling sternly.

Blushing ferociously, Q nodded sharply, and disappeared as soon as he was feasibly able, arse stinging.


	79. Chapter 79

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! All your writing is amazing by the way, just in case you get tired of hearing it! I wanted to ask for a prompt, a really vague one (sorry!). I dunno, I just get the feeling that Mallory and Watson could be really good mates, Could you write something with that? I just feel they might have a lot in common! Thanks so much! – anon

“My god, John Watson.”

John turned, not entirely sure he was hallucinating. “Christ,  _Gareth_ ,” he said delightedly, immediately bringing the man into a brief embrace. “You’re looking good, how’ve you been?!”

Of course, Sherlock took the opportunity to clear his throat in a way that failed to be anything more than wholly suggestive and rather irate. “Ah, sorry – John and I knew each other way back when. I… well. I would prefer if you both addressed me as ‘M’.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow, and John’s jaw, went equal distances in opposite directions.

“M? As in…?”

“I am currently one of the managing heads of the British Intelligence Services,” M told him, with a small smile. “I know. Of all people.”

John glanced at Sherlock, who still looked mercilessly distrustful. “So hang on, you must be Q’s boss?”

Mallory snorted. “In a manner of speaking – Q’s a law unto himself, trying to be superior to him in any regard is frequently laughable.”

Sherlock’s antagonism twisted into something a little more amused. “Yes, that sounds curiously apt,” he commented, voice dry as a desert plain. “Is Q around, may I add? I’m supposed to see him any moment now.”

“He was busy with Bond a little while ago, I wouldn’t go investigating for another half-hour or so,” M advised, looking a little repulsed; John almost understood. He was from a world that had never been quite  _delighted_  with homosexuality. Not in an active way, just in a way that made it seem alien, uncomfortable.

Ironic, given that John had found Sherlock, and had all his preconceptions turned entirely on his head.

“We need to get some drinks,” John said immediately, glossing over the moment of faint discomfort. “Also – M, this is Sherlock Holmes, my partner.”

M’s smile was utterly charming. “Your reputation precedes you,” he replied, without a shadow of contempt. “I’m glad to finally make your acquaintance.”

Sherlock returned a  _humph_  sound. John considered it fairly promising, insofar as Sherlock’s usual noises went.

“Come find me in my office in a couple of hours?” M suggested; John grinned, agreed without hesitation, and decided there were probably few options but to locate a fairly reluctant Q, before Sherlock started getting unpleasant.


	80. Chapter 80

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bondlock, 00Q background? Sherlock is terribly possessive of his little brother, they were born really close together and practically lived in each others pockets. Q’s never shown interest in anything besides his computers so he freaks when he discovers 007’s pursuit of Q. Maybe John has to intervene before Bond kills Sherlock out of frustration? – runemarks

Q was clearly oblivious or intentionally ignoring it. Either way, Sherlock was considerably less than happy with the state of affairs insofar as one James Bond was concerned; Q needed to be involved with somebody  _only if_  they were capable of taking care of him, were not psychotic or potentially homicidal, and definitely not agents of MI6 with licences to kill.

Thus, Sherlock began to get a little invasive. Q tended to let him so what he liked; Sherlock went through phases of unnecessary attachment, and it was quite alright, it kept him busy so Q just let him go for it.

John just found it mildly frustrating, as they essentially wound up moving out of Baker Street for a fortnight just so they could be close enough to truly annoy Bond out of stalking Q.

“This is ridiculous, Sherlock,” John pointed out at one stage, a little wearily. “A guy likes Q. He’s being decent about it – just let him. Leave the pair of them alone. Nothing may come of it anyway, and…”

“Shut up John, you understand nothing.”

John duly shut up, and refused Sherlock sex for two days out of revenge.

Meanwhile, Bond was getting tangible frustrated, then angry, with Sherlock’s unsubtle and frankly rude attempts at interference in his younger brother’s life. “He can make his own decisions,” Bond growled at one stage, Sherlock staring back at him with a raised eyebrow and no flicker of concern. “I only want to take him out to dinner.”

“Yes, and then have sex with him, before leaving him with a potential broken heart. You have a back catalogue of those who have fallen prey to your desire for sex, and my brother will join their massed ranks; he deserves infinitely better,” Sherlock told him crisply, and stalked away before Bond could adequately respond.

John realised fairly quickly that action would need to be taken, before Sherlock Holmes was found in a variety of intriguing locations across London, all at the same time. “Sherlock,” John began, quite calmly. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“He’s my  _brother_.”

“… which doesn’t actually change my point,” John continued, Sherlock glaring at him with naked distrust. “Q’s an adult, and he’s allowed to flirt, and be flirted with. James is a good bloke, he wouldn’t actually hurt Q – and if he does,  _then_  is the moment you get frightening.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “So if I discover harm, I am permitted to respond as I like?” he clarified.

John was struck with the sense that his next answer would probably prove something of a turning-point in how Sherlock treated human beings. Honestly, he was a little bit nervous. “… yes,” he managed.

The glint in Sherlock’s eyes boded very badly indeed.


	81. Chapter 81

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I can’t get this out of my head- kid!Q finds Teen!Sherlock after an overdose/high and gets upset and scared and Mycroft comforts him? Thanks! – anon

In years to come, Q would always remember the contorted form of his brother, tourniquet tightly wrapped, pale and sweat-slicked, trembling to himself and making horrible, strained sounds under his breath.

It had looked like a horror film, and Q had wasted no time before letting out a hysterical, terrified scream: “ _Mycroft_.”

Of course, Mycroft had been there almost instantly. Q would always know, as a point of familiar and wonderful and comforting certainty, that he need only call Mycroft’s name for his brother to appear to fix absolutely everything and anything.

Q trusted Mycroft.

Mycroft had looked in, and Q watched his brother practically stop breathing for a moment. “Q, go, call an ambulance, bring the phone in here.”

Q did precisely as he was told, returning to the bedroom to find Mycroft bent over Sherlock’s barely-conscious form, examining the contents of what looked like a hypodermic syringe; Sherlock had many in his room, always had, for his experiments. “Myc, what…”

Mycroft held up a hand. “Go into your room, I’ll be there in a moment.”

“I don’t want to be alone,” Q returned, voice getting too-high, tears sparkling; Sherlock let out a pained, awful sound, a noise Q would remember for the rest of his life, and Mycroft just looked at him with something awfully close to plea.

Q disappeared, and sat outside Sherlock’s door instead, in the corridor, listening to Mycroft say things Q didn’t understand.

The ambulance came and went again, and Mycroft did not go with it.

Instead, he found his youngest brother – so young, far too young to have had to see Sherlock like that – and pulled him into a tight hug. “’S’lock…”

“He’s in hospital, mummy and daddy will be there with him,” Mycroft soothed, stroking through Q’s hair; Q let out a small hiccupping sound, and started to cry for the first time that day. “Shh, Q, it’s alright. He’ll be alright. He’s an  _idiot_ , but he will be alright.”

Mycroft almost didn’t hear: “I don’t want ‘lock to die.”

Q found himself bundled even tighter to his big brother, Mycroft holding him so close Q was afraid they would both shatter, and abstract terror he couldn’t quite name. “We will keep him safe,” Mycroft promised, kissing the top of Q’s head, his curly hair, so like Sherlock’s had been at that age. “I promise. I always keep both of you safe, don’t I?”

Q nodded damply into Mycroft chest, sniffling to himself, refusing to let Mycroft move away; Mycroft lasted another couple of minutes, before gently prising Q’s head away from his shift. “Come on,” he soothed. “Let’s get you some hot chocolate, and we’ll watch a film. Sound good?”

The beauty of children; Q’s smile was only a shadow away from full, and he let Mycroft take his hand, and lead him downstairs to the kitchen.


	82. Chapter 82

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I really enjoy your works. My prompt: Bondlock. Q is Greg Lestrade’s son, the result of a fling Lestrade had as a wayward teen. Raising a genius anti-social son wasn’t easy but it was good training for dealing with Sherlock Holmes. – anon

“Sherlock, that will do.”

Greg was actually just fairly bored of being outsmarted by kids half his age and twice his arrogance. Q was bad enough – Q, who had been intelligent and paranoid enough to decide fairly young that he was going to abandon his full name and use a spurious initial instead – and Greg could just about deal with one.

Sherlock, with his endless histrionics, was just a little bit too much.

“You’re intelligent, yes,” Greg told him, with a fair shrug, “but this isn’t one of those times when you can tread on other people. Don’t be a twat, it gets annoying, yeah?”

Sherlock looked rather taken aback. John did too, for that matter. “Well done,” he commented.

“Your son. He’s an adult. An intelligent adult, in fact.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “It’s only taken you six years,” he said, with a laugh to sting what could have been cruel. “Come on, Sherlock, how’d you not notice?! He’s working for the government now, Mycroft’s a good mate of his.”

“Mycroft does not have  _mates_ ,” Sherlock managed, with something between distaste and naked horror. “That’s… no. I reject it.”

“You can’t reject reality.”

“I can, and I am,” Sherlock retorted, still clearly far too taken aback to be normal. “This is absurd. I’m calling Mycroft.”

Greg just snorted. “Don’t be daft, he’s working. We’ve got a case to do, if you hadn’t noticed.”

John was grinning inanely. “What’s his name?”

“Q,” Greg returned, with all the pride of a father. “He’s brilliant, I should introduce you at some point, yeah?”

“Course,” John smirked, glancing at a still-speechless Sherlock. “Q. Short for…?”

“ _Quartermaster_ ,” Sherlock filled in, his horror now abject and reaching stratospheric proportions. “Lestrade, I thought better of you.”

Greg raised an eyebrow. “Then an exceptionally talented son who is now working as the boss of a major government agency? I didn’t see much higher to go, I have to say.”

John blinked. “As in…?”

“Quartermaster of MI6. The  _Quartermaster_  of MI6. Responsible for…”

“… continue that sentence, and I believe even I’m allowed to kill you,” Greg told him, with a note of seriousness that was just the wrong side of alarming. “Case, Sherlock. Now. I’m not listening to you whine any more.”

Sherlock couldn’t see an option but to do as told.

He may or may not have sulked.


	83. Chapter 83

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> assfghjkl you made me ship Q and Mycroft. Can I have more, please?! Maybe with Q ending up exhausted after a bad day of gossip at work and coming home to fluffy and caring Mycroft? – vidarmagnussen

_There is nothing wrong with liking older men. Nothing at all. It’s not the age that I care about, it’s the person, that’s all, and nobody has the right to say otherwise…_

Q had repeated the same sentiments to himself, almost without stopping, for most of the day. Frankly, he was reaching the end of his tether; his relationship with Mycroft had no bearing on his professionalism, his work ethic, his life as a whole as far as a single damn one of them were concerned. Q was with a longterm partner who loved him. That was what mattered.

Everything was shit and Q was cross and tired, and Mycroft was probably going to be late given his perpetual work schedule.

Except that Q pushed open the door, and everything in him instantly relaxed as he realised that, despite all his somewhat sceptical thoughts, there was no doubt at all that Mycroft was home.

Home, and had cooked dinner.

“What on earth brought this on?” Q asked, dumping his messenger bag in the hall, and sliding into the kitchen.

Mycroft glanced over at him, and quirked an eyebrow. “It was fairly evident on the phone that you were not having an ideal day,” he stated calmly. “I felt it wisest to be here to look after you. Are you alright?”

Q essentially just toppled onto him. Mycroft was not the most demonstratively affectionate human being – he was not too fond of physical contact, and frankly nor was Q – but he knew when he was needed, knew that Q could be calmed by the presence of a hand or an arm around his shoulders, a kiss brushed into his hairline.

It was an odd coupling, and both of them knew that, but honestly? Weirder ones existed. The insults to Mycroft came thick and fast, but then so did the ones for Q, and they could get around it because Q had realised he was deeply in love with Mycroft a very long time ago, and Mycroft loved him so much he had cooked pasta. The man didn’t even like pasta all that much.

TV passed them by, and Q leant into Mycroft’s warmth as the man worked on his phone – he had never been able to stand junk TV – and speared himself ungodly quantities of pasta. “I love you,” he said aloud, as the completely nondescript programme continued to pass him by.

Mycroft smiled, and kissed Q carefully, more loving and compassionate than anybody would begin to know.

Neither could believe quite how lucky they were.


	84. Chapter 84

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I found some really lovely photos of Andrew Scott and Ben Whishaw from when they were in the play ‘Cock’ together and suddenly it came to me that Moriarty has met Q! Please, please, please could you write this because I think Sherlock and Mycroft would have reason to be very worried. – tessismad

It somehow didn’t seem too surprising that Q and Moriarty would run into one another, mostly because they were both fairly important figures in the criminal world. Q was a bad guy turned good, and Moriarty was just bad through and through, but extremely good at it.

In actual fact, Moriarty and Q crossed over far earlier than either initially realised. The murky realms of communication technology allowed a core of people to slip and start talking, discussing ideas and concepts, and both Q and Moriarty found similar-minded people.

The pair stole more money than anybody could count.  They considered themselves good friends. They never once met in person.

They didn’t meet in person, in fact, until Moriarty had been imprisoned by the British government for the first time.

“Q? You’re not  _my_  Q now, are you?”

Q didn’t know how he knew. He just did. “Jiminy Cricket,” he said aloud – Jim’s screenname, once upon a time – slightly breathless. “Shit.  _Shit_. Well, then. Nice to finally meet you. How are you these days?”

“You moved from Q to actual-Q, well  _done_ ,” Moriarty told him, sounding honestly impressed, albeit a little pouting. “I  _missed_  you. It was never as much fun on my own. What  _happened_  to you?”

Q could honestly say he hadn’t expected Jim to be quite  _so_  visibly psychotic. He had always been too far, too much, but the tangible mad-as-a-bag-of-cats thing Moriarty had going on these days was definitely new. “What happened to  _you_? I got caught by MI6, they offered me Quartermaster pretty much straight up. You just went underground, I kept trying to track you down.”

“I know,” Moriarty murmured, dark eyes a little more intense, a little too intense. “MI6 on my back, and my favourite friend gone,  _well_. What’s a criminal to do?”

It was weird. Q had missed him. It was impossible to deny.

“Q?”

Q turned. “Good evening, Mr Holmes.”

“Oh come on now, none of that, all friends here,” Moriarty purred. “We all know that the Quartermaster of MI6 is Mycroft’s baby brother.  _Oops_ , did I say that out loud?”

It was certainly gratifying, to see Q pale, just a little bit. Even the Iceman looked alarmed. “Jim, please try and behave, I could kill you”

“But you won’t,” Jim returned, songlike, playful.

Mycroft’s gaze was heavy, claustrophobic. “We’ll see,” Jim returned, and his gaze slid to Mycroft’s. “Hello, Mr Holmes. Let’s chat, shall we?”


	85. Chapter 85

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello ladies. I just LOVE your writing. I think this topic has been done before, but I’ll ask. Would you write a fic where Q was forced to work at MI6 because he was caught at illegal activities? Maybe a consulting hacker, and he has no real morals, so he took jobs from the ‘good’ and ‘bad’ sides. Maybe he is required to stop a group like Quatnum or other group with his old identity. – anon

Q did whatever paid, and whatever interested him. More the latter, if he was completely honest; MI6 was a very complex organisation, and they’d kill him if he didn’t agree to turn to their favour, so it made sense to just do as told for a while and freelance while nobody was looking.

Of course, being an ex-criminal-mastermind did mean some hangovers. There were the larger groups – Quantum, BP, things like that – and also the smaller ones, like the Moriarty criminal empire which Q had once been a fairly large part of.

Jim was nice, and brilliant in bed. Q had been true to MI6, though, and refused to do any more work for him. Jim had never needed much of interest from Q anyway; his work was mostly plebeian, barring a very nice communication system that Q knew full well was now impenetrable. Jim adored it. It was nice to have a private line.

“Q honey, are people looking for me, would you like to tell me why?”

Q laughed lightly. “Oh Jim, come on, you know MI6 are going to be trying to track you down – you’ve been getting more audacious by the day. Lovely work in Madrid by the by, had all of your hallmarks, so I’m assuming…”

“Naturally, who else would get the body arranged like that?” Jim asked, with mock offence, pouting dramatically. “I take my work  _seriously_. Now, get off my back, or I bomb the lot of you. Sound good?”

“I’m afraid not. Back off out of anything European.”

Jim sighed, sniffing sadly, pretending to weep before instantly calming. “Before hostilities start, fancy a fuck?”

Q paused a moment, considering. “Are you planning on a kidnap? I’d like to clear my schedule if you are. I won’t argue, but I want no more than a week and two days’ notice. Also I’m topping tonight, Bond hates bottoming and I miss it.”

A small, cackling laugh. “Can’t I take your well-fucked arse?” Jim whined.

“Nope. You didn’t answer on the kidnap.”

Another dramatic sigh. “It’s alright, I’ll give you notice.”

“Cheers. Once again: Europe. Back off, or I bring you in, and it will not be pleasant.”

“No touching the face.”

Q smiled unpleasantly. “I think most people just want to cut off bits of you. If you’re lucky, you’ll keep fingernails.”

“Promises promises,” Jim purred. “Ta ta, Q.”

Q hung up without further word, and settled back.

This was going to be interesting.


	86. Chapter 86

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could I have a really cute fic where John asks Q for help in dealing with nightmares so he can help Sherlock after the Serbian prison? – anon

Q grinned as he headed into the coffee shop; John had the fabulous ability to know precisely what Q wanted before he even managed to arrive, which was a little bit like Sherlock’s deductive brilliance only better, because it meant Q got really good tea and didn’t have to worry about the angle of his tie.

“So,” Q said brightly, sliding into the opposite chair. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

“Sorry to be interrupting you in work,” John replied, with a shrug. “I just need some advice fairly urgently – Sherlock. His nightmares are ridiculous, don’t know how the man’s slept for a single night since getting back here…”

A brief smirk on Q’s part, quickly dissipating when he got control again and remembered time and place for innuendo; John looked genuinely worried, a look that didn’t particularly suit the ex-soldier. “Alright,” Q replied slowly. “I’m sorry. Sherlock’s always been prone to nightmares, I think the drugs didn’t help…”

“James has nightmares, right?”

Any lightness in Q’s expression was well and truly gone. “Regrettably,” he admitted quietly. “They’re getting better, but… yes, in short, and sometimes lucid dreams if he’s remembering combat scenarios, I’m sure you empathise.”

This time, it was John’s to smile; hindsight is a lovely thing to offer humour to the worst of situations, and John had rather infamously at one stage destroyed a lamp in the middle of the night and near enough no recollection of doing so. Sherlock had been deeply confused.

“He was tortured.”

Q winced slightly. “Yes, the Serbians,” he murmured. “Bond… he’s had some torture-related nightmares, yes. Honestly, you have to leave them to it, last thing you want to do is conflate dream and reality – if he’s half-awake it’ll just be more frightening. Say his name, ground him, but don’t really touch or try to violently wake him up.”

“Gathered that, he socked me in the jaw last time.”

Neither quite managed a genuine smile. “After that? Grounding, refocusing… I tend to go through the name, age, where-he-is thing, James tends to get on with that, the more military the better – with Sherlock I’d say get him to start analysing something, hand him a jacket and let him go for it, he used to deduce everything in sight after drug come-downs…”

John let out a whistling breath. “Alright, I can do that…”

“Don’t mention Mycroft at any stage,” Q continued, a little apologetically. “Mycroft is… Sherlock resents him too much, is too angry, and Mycroft was bloody  _involved_  in this one, so I’d definitely steer well clear of that. Me too, actually, he never forgave me. So just you, I’m afraid, remind him of who you are and who you are to him.”

Of course, John let out a small, disparaging snort. “He never seems to believe me when I first tell him,” he pointed out ruefully. “Him and his bloody  _sentiment_ …”

“Tell me about it,” Q smirked. “Always the way. He’ll be fine though, John, promise. He’ll compartmentalise it somewhere in his palace and that’ll be that, I really wouldn’t worry too much. Just get through it for now.”

“Is that a healthy thing?”

Q considered for a moment, before shrugging. “It’s just how we work,” he said honestly, still a touch apologetically. “We all do it. Put all of the nastiness in a box and ignore it until further notice or mental breakdown.”

John snorted, taking a large sip of his own tea. “Sounds very Holmesian, well done, full marks for consistency. How’s work?”

“Horrible,” Q replied cheerily. “How’s the surgery?”

“I’m deducting-assisting all hours of the day and night, thank god for fame – we now have enough commission work to pay rent, so that’s good…”

Thus the pair settled into a normal catch-up, and tried not to think about their partners, and the kind of lives that caused nightmares.


	87. Chapter 87

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I read your stories all the time and I love all of them. However, I would love to see more nice sherlock maybe about how the world sees him and then how his friends see him… especially how John sees him ; ) it would also be fun if it was in the Q is a Holmes vain I think Sherlock may be a terrible little brother but could be an awesome big brother! This is much longer than intended…YOU ROCK!!!! – jasminempollock

Sherlock was not exactly soft on the inside, but was definitely not sociopathic through and through. It took John a fairly long while to realise it, in fairness, but somewhere beneath Sherlock’s acerbity he was scrupulously loyal and cared a dangerously large amount.

Long after Reichenbach, when their lives had settled back into something halfway normal again, John met Sherlock’s youngest sibling, and finally realised that everything Sherlock tried to present in the way of emotionlessness paled into nothing when it came to Q.

Q was not exactly a wilting flower himself. Q, in fact, was probably the most frighteningly dangerous person John would ever meet. His boyfriend certainly was. Between the two, John was terrified.

Sherlock was just… well. Sherlock would end earths for Q, which was very obvious from the outset. “Q, are you still persisting in dating this man?”

Bond raised an amused eyebrow, apparently rather used to Sherlock’s insults. “Are you still persisting in  _not_  dating this one?” Q parried, glancing at John.

John rolled his eyes. “Still not gay.  _Still not gay_.”

All three occupants of the room glanced at him with mild, contemptuous disbelief. “Anyway…” Q said, letting the word slide away from him. “Yes, I am. Bond is my partner. Eventually, you will need to get used to the idea, although I appreciate that it is not high on your list of current priorities.”

“Not as such, no,” Sherlock returned simply.

John extended a hand towards Bond, who smiled winningly, and shook his hand comfortably. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Sherlock shifted himself very slightly closer to John. Not much, but John had learnt to read Sherlock fairly well, and couldn’t help but feel rather flattered; Sherlock was  _protective_  of him, in the quiet and almost unnoticeable way Sherlock had of doing these things.

John had saved his life within days of meeting him. Sherlock saved his life again and again, a million times over, more than John could count.

Anderson’s insults meant nothing, absolute nothing to John. Anderson was an idiot, an absolute idiot, and more than that – he was just  _wrong_. Calling Sherlock robotic was to entirely fail to understand everything about the man, the various infinite facets of a man like him.

“I promise he’s alright, Sherlock,” Q soothed, reaching out to his brother. “You can calm down and stop half-growling now. Honestly.”

Sherlock’s expression was soft, somehow, in the way he tended to do when he thought John wasn’t looking. “Be safe,” he warned his younger sibling.

Q smirked. “When am I not?” he asked, with just a touch of arrogance, sliding his hand back into Bond’s grasp. “Anyway. Shall we have some dinner now, yes?”

Sherlock looked over at John, raised an eyebrow. “Yep,” John confirmed, and followed them onwards, feeling slightly smug at the remembrance of the softness that had remained in Sherlock’s expression, would always remain.


	88. Chapter 88

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I LOVE your fics!!!!!!! <3 could you possibly do a bondlock one where Sherlock and John are on a case somewhere and Bond happens to be assigned a mission dealing with the same people and they run into each other? AAAHHHH ily :) – anon

John was in a suit.

John hated suits, he really did. Give him army uniform, civvies, smart jackets, jumpers – not a damned tuxedo that he’d had to buy, that Sherlock and Mycroft had  _both_  been involved in the tailoring of, and that he would be putting right to the back of the wardrobe when this damned assignment was over.

The upside was that Sherlock thought he looked gorgeous, and that was nice for John’s ego. True, Sherlock didn’t  _say_  John looked gorgeous – he looked John up and down and made a generally positive but somehow still disparaging sound, which John knew meant he was doing – but still, his partner was vaguely content, which would do.

“John?”

Bond was Sherlock’s brother’s partner, and John was fairly fond of the man. “What the devil are you doing here?” he asked, with palpable shock. “Where’s…”

“Ben’s around somewhere, probably mingling with important people,” Bond said, a little pointedly.

John pieced things together fairly easily. “Pity,” he said carefully. “Have I introduced you to my partner?”

Bond’s smile was wide and confident. “I’m not sure you have,” he said comfortably. “I’ll find mine, you find yours?”

“Of course,” John replied, and glanced around to find Sherlock, locating him at the opposite end of the room; he nodded at Bond, snagged his partner. “Sherlock. I need to introduce you to a couple of new acquaintances.”

“I’m busy.”

“No you’re not,” John contradicted, smiling around at those Sherlock was attempting to talk to. “Excuse us, gentlemen.”

Sherlock looked mutinous, but was rather out of options; he followed John away, keeping his expression entirely impassive as they approached Bond, and Q. The latter looked even more uncomfortable in a suit than John felt. “This is Sherlock,” John said, with a smile, indicating a very surly Sherlock.

“Pleasure,” Bond nodded, extending a hand. “I’m Richard, this is my partner, Ben.”

Q looked distinctly awkward, in perfect character as – if John was reading correctly – an exceptionally reticent and perhaps controlled young man. “Hi,” he mumbled; John was honestly impressed, he barely recognised the terrifying young man he knew to be Sherlock’s brother.

“I’ll let you guys get on,” John smiled, keeping in role and near enough ignoring Q, keeping eye contact with Bond; Sherlock followed suit encouragingly, and the pair disappeared.

“You’re good at that,” Sherlock acknowledged blandly.

John couldn’t help but grin to himself, letting Sherlock lead him back into the party.


	89. Chapter 89

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! I’m a HUGE fan of you two! I was admiring from afar but I coupdn’t help but ask; could you help my miserable soul via BondLock in which Q and Sherlock have a fight about if Bond is good for Q or not and Q hitting a sensitive spot? Thanks! – canibemycroftsgoldfish

Sherlock was merciless: “He’s not good for you,” he said firmly.

Q rolled his eyes; Sherlock tried this every single time, tried to interfere with Q’s life despite him having absolutely no bloody right. “Sherlock, I’m not doing this again. Leave it alone. I’m happy.”

“Serial womaniser.”

“Entirely steady with me, and is the poster child for commitment,” Q returned tensely; Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, and he tried for another one.

“The man  _kills for a living_.”

“Yes, because John is an  _ideal_  example of a functional human being,” Q snapped back, and finally, _finally_ , Sherlock could see the cracks. “He shot somebody, everybody knows it, and if I particularly wanted I could definitely make him get imprisoned for murder and I’d do so merrily and happily. Do you understand? I have had enough of this. Every single time, you decide to have another go at him. You can barely function in a relationship, you’re with somebody  _just_  as questionable, and more than that – he’s nowhere near your intellectual level, and it pisses you off.”

Sherlock was silent. Absolutely, painfully silent.

“Bond isn’t…”

“Bond is a secret agent, and a very good one. He has intelligence in a different way to both of us – he can integrate, he assimilates information, he disguises and changes everything about himself for the sake of his missions. He is committed, he is brilliant. He’s also a damn good shot and looks extraordinary in a suit. Really, you can’t ask for more than that. John is clever, yes, he’s a doctor and he’s a soldier – but he’s not  _you_. It’s why you can’t stand me.”

Sherlock was still silent, only now, he had regained some form of expression. “No, I… I don’t…”

“You never could stand me, my decisions,” Q continued, a little quieter now, still stabbing. “You and Myc – you love me, maybe, but I’m the stupid one and so all my decisions are stupid, aren’t they?”

“ _No_.”

“I want you to stop interfering in my life,” Q told him simply. “Insults, commentary – I’ve had enough. You’re jealous. I won’t keep listening to this.”

Q watched Sherlock for a very long, very uncomfortable few minutes. Sherlock said nothing. He appeared to have completely frozen in stasis.

Sherlock didn’t move, didn’t change.

Q left him like that, his mind palace aching under the strain of things he simply didn’t want to consider.


	90. Chapter 90

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I was wondering if you could do a fic which focuses around Q, Sherlock, and Mycroft being brotherly. Sherlock goes to a drug den on a case, and finds Q curled up in a corner. Q might have had a fight with his boyfriend or something, but he’s really distraught so Sherlock calls Mycroft and there’s lots of Holmes brothers fluff. – itsabeautifulmidnight

Mycroft had a general loathing for mornings. Interrupted sleep was one of the great problems of this world, as far as he was concerned, and to be rudely awakened before the allotted time of his alarm clock was frankly on the verge of insulting, and certainly not to be forgiven.

Except that nobody would call on him at this time of night, were it not urgent. Not to mention that only three people in the world knew where he lived.

Q was foetal. Sherlock looked towards the end of his tether. “I couldn’t think where else to go, he hasn’t been very cooperative,” he said simply.

Instantly, Mycroft was in action. He coaxed arms beneath Q’s body, lifting his brother up and – with Sherlock’s assistance – getting him settled on the sofa. “Get water, and there is a medical kit beneath the sink.”

“He’s been shooting up…”

“I gathered that, yes, I have medication for that in said kit,” Mycroft informed Sherlock, with a weight that made Sherlock flush slightly; there was only one true reason why Mycroft would have that sort of thing on hand, and it certainly was not Q.

Sherlock vanished.

“Q, can you hear me?” Mycroft asked, voice as calm as he was able to make it.

Q made a strangled, sobbing sound, and wound his body up tighter.

Sherlock returned with the medical kit; Mycroft rifled through it with practised ease, finding necessaries, commanding Sherlock to fetch other items with a laudable level of calm. “Q, you need to tell us what happened. What did you take?”

“What he gave me,” Q replied, voice breathlessly small. “I don’t know, My, I don’t remember. S’fuzzy. He’s  _gone_ , My, he’s gone and I don’t, I don’t…”

Q descended into unfocused sobbing, regressing to the younger child Mycroft remembered from their childhoods; Sherlock looked nakedly shocked, looking between Mycroft and Q with horror and pity and something like fear.

Q was always supposed to be alright. Whatever else happened, Q had to be alright.

Instead, Q was weeping and deliriously high and not focusing.

“Who’s gone, Q?”

“Steven,” Q replied, and let out another low wail.

Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged glances. Steven was Q’s boyfriend of nine months. Neither of them liked him.

Apparently, neither did Q any more.

“Q, why the drugs?”

Q whimpered slightly, curling up tighter. “I didn’t want to think any more,” he mumbled.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

This was his fault.

Mycroft seemed to agree; his glare was merciless over Q’s head, narrowing with quiet anger. “I’m sorry,” Q whispered. “Please don’t be angry.”

“I’m not angry,” Mycroft said, with an astonishing lack of conviction.

“I’m sorry too.”

Q emerged from his foetal position to look at Sherlock with unfocused confusion. “S’not your fault,” he stated categorically. “Not you. It was my fault. My choice. S-Steven liked this stuff, I just… it was him, not you. Promise.”

With that, Q simply passed out on the bed, tears still drying on his cheeks, his brothers guarding him carefully.


	91. Chapter 91

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HI! I absolutely LOVE what you guys do. You never fail to make my day :) Don’t bother if you’re too busy, but could I ask for a prompt? Wherein Q is the third Holmes, and is hurt during the Skyfall explosion. Sherlock and Mycroft are alerted, and rush to the hospital to make sure their little brother is ok. Sherlock is pissed a Myc because his little brother was supposed to be safe. Q can be asleep or awake. Again, love you, love you, love you, you make my day every day, love you :D – anon

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock, breathless, glanced between his two siblings; Mycroft was standing tall, with his usual expression of placid control, while Q was curled up on a hospital bed looking extremely small.

“You were supposed to be making sure he’s  _safe_ ,” Sherlock snapped without hesitation, moving to his youngest brother’s bedside; casts covered his slim form, the young man appallingly battered, and Sherlock was  _livid_. “What are you  _useful_  for, if not to take care of  _our brother_?!”

Q was always, always the most precious of the Holmes brothers, and entirely because the elder two had decreed it so. Q’s presence meant a cessation of hostilities between the elder brothers, meant safety, meant peace. Q was the harbinger of calm, and they guarded him and even actually  _listened_  to him on occasion.

Mycroft looked, for one of only a handful of times in Sherlock’s memory, sincerely unhappy. “This was outside my control,” he said quietly. “A bomb within MI6. This could not have possibly been foreseen.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me,  _brother mine_ , but is it not your  _job_  to see these things?! R…”

“He is no longer ‘R’,” Mycroft intervened, before Sherlock could continue. “The Quartermaster died in the explosion. Our brother is now Q, and will be known by that epithet until the day of his death.”

“Superb. Third name change,” Sherlock muttered, glancing over his brother. “So he is now Quartermaster? Superb, Mycroft, another stellar way to make sure he stays safe.”

“I am doing my  _best_.”

A disparaging snort. “Apparently not, or he would not be in hospital, would he?!” he asked, voice rising with anger, while Mycroft went just a little bit pink. “That’s it, Mycroft, you are redundant. You cannot even adequately take care of your siblings.”

“And where, precisely, have you been in all of this?” Mycroft returned, with the same razor sharpness Sherlock was managing. “Do not attempt to take a dubious moral high ground, it truly does not suit you.”

“ _Both of you stop bickering_.”

Both brothers turned in perfect unison.

Q was lying in bed, looking like a deeply annoyed kitten. “S’ridiculous,” he mumbled. “I’m in hospital, and all you two can do is argue? Not fair.”

“He started…”

“It was Mycr…”

“ _Stop it_ ,” Q repeated, more emphatically. “Just, stop it. Be nice, or I’ll get seriously pissed off.”

Sherlock and Mycroft smiled twin smiles of condescending disbelief. “Quite,” Mycroft supplemented.

“I mean it. Everything electric you own. Poof. Gone.”

Mycroft blinked. Q never made those sorts of threats lightly. “Sherlock, I apologise.”

Sherlock twisted, eyes comically wide with disbelief.

“Sherlock, you too,” Q ordered weakly.

With a great show of distaste, Sherlock muttered: “sorry.”

“Better. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to pass out again,” Q said simply, and did so without further comment, leaving his brothers standing shellshocked around the bed.


	92. Chapter 92

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could you do one Bondlock with fem!Q and overprotective Mycroft (or/and Sherlock)? – anon

Mycroft was, unsurprisingly, knocking on Q’s door within twenty-four hours.

Honestly, she was more impressed than anything else; even for Mycroft, that required an impressive level of spying and general subterfuge, given that most cameras in the vicinity had – to the best of Q’s knowledge – been shorted out.

Which meant she needed to do  _yet another_  sweep of her office, but that was beside the point.

“Hi Myc,” she smiled, inviting him in, immediately heading to put the kettle on. “So, I’m assuming this is about my relationship?”

Mycroft sat gingerly on the edge of her settee, umbrella clasped between elegant hands. “Quite,” he replied easily. “I’ll take coffee black, if you would.”

Q raised an eyebrow at him. “Are we dieting again?” she asked lightly, without the judgement Sherlock customarily injected into such queries. “You’re looking good, either way, so I wouldn’t worry about some skimmed milk.”

Mycroft was always rendered putty in the hands of his sister. Q had always been a wonderfully calm presence, caring and careful, everything Mycroft needed for his sanity. “You have me convinced,” Mycroft sighed. “Now. As to Mr Bond…”

“… you’re not delighted,” Q completed, as the kettle clicked. “I’m not too surprised, but please – it’s all good. He cares about me, I care about him, it shouldn’t be an issue.”

Q handed her brother his coffee, and settled in her favourite armchair; Mycroft looked deeply unhappy, settling himself down more comfortably. “You are aware that he is a double-oh agent, and thus extremely dangerous?” he asked, a little drily. “You spend quite enough time with agents as it is, without needing…”

“Stop it,” Q said quickly, sharply. “I promise – if anything goes wrong, I’ll drop him like a hot potato and you can say ‘I told you so’ with great satisfaction. Sound alright?”

“Not quite. He’s…”

Q rolled his eyes. “Myc, I know you’re worried, but seriously – stop.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “You are my younger sister, and…”

“… and I’m also in my twenties, and more than capable of making my own choices of romantic partner without your interference. I…”

There was a knock on the door. A rather frantic one.

Q glanced to said door, and back to Mycroft, face paling to a chalky white. “You didn’t,” she whispered, in utter horror. “Mycroft,  _tell me you didn’t_.”

“I’m sorry Q, it had to be done.”

“It did  _not_ ,” she hissed back, eyes huge as she stared at the door, palpably terrified. “You… I’m going to _kill you_.”

Mycroft did actually look just a touch remorseful. “I truly believe…”

Q headed to the door with laudably confident strides. “Still going to kill you,” she said in a low hiss, before opening the door wide. “Hello, Sherlock,” she said weakly, stepping back as Sherlock barged his way in. “Tea?”

“Yes,” he snapped, looking over his sister. “Then you can tell me what in the fuck has possessed you…”

It was going to be a very, very long evening.


	93. Chapter 93

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My older sister is going to cvgbhnjklhnjhnjh, and I am the youngest of the family (She is 9 years older than me) and I am having a lot of feels!! So, I want some bondlock. Maybe James find the “family portraits” and Q starts talking about his past and his family. Q gets a little bit emotional so, James and John prepare a “family meeting” or something like that. All I want is a little bit of brother’s love among the 3!! – anon

“I really don’t see why this is necessary,” Q swallowed, shifting awkwardly in his seat. Apparently anything too expensive was counter to Sherlock’s tastes, and anything cheaper was met with a disparaging sneer from Mycroft. Thus, they had ended up in a teahouse of all places. There was cake and Earl Grey, so Q was contented.

“You miss them,” Bond replied, one hand still covering Q’s own. The previous week had been any exercise in house cleaning – they were finally moving in together. Bond had found Q’s memory box. It had gone downhill from there. Apparently Q hadn’t seen his siblings outside of a business context for years – he was more used to calling Mycroft ‘sir’ than brother.

Bond had found Q looking at a collection of pictures, buried within a box inside a box and left to gather dust. A family of people long-since gone: parents who had loved, eldest brother who had been affectionate, middle brother who had guarded. The youngest one, who had been naïve and small and dependent.

Those people were gone, now.

Q wished more than he could express that they were still there. Mycroft had practically raised him after their parents’ death, and Sherlock was Q’s ultimate saviour.

Now, Mycroft sat territorially with cake, while Sherlock looked like a petulant child. The man was near-enough pouting.

“You have a terrible taste in tea.”

Q slammed down his cup. “ _That’s enough_. For fuck’s sakes, both of you, this isn’t fair. We wanted to have a nice tea break, maybe talk a bit, and you can’t stop  _sulking_. Sherlock, I haven’t spoken to you properly in weeks. Mycroft, I haven’t even  _seen_  you in weeks. I just want to actually catch up a bit, see how you’re both doing. I can’t stand the way you two are, to each other or to me or  _anything_.”

With that, he left the room, with as much decorum as he could muster.

Sherlock and Mycroft looked at one another.

“We should probably follow,” Mycroft drawled, sighing dramatically. “Is this my turn? Or your own?”

From outside the doorway, Mycroft was hit with a shoe in the side of the head.

Sherlock snorted. “That answers that,” he smirked, and sauntered towards the door, and his younger brother.

He got another shoe – amusingly not the other of that pair – directly in the nose. It didn’t bleed, but Sherlock used swear words John had taught him from his time in the army.

“Try harder next time,” Q yelled.

Five minutes later, John and Bond had arrived, and  _both_  were irate.

-

“We’re sorry.”

Q looked up at both of his uncharacteristically cowed siblings, and smiled very slightly. “Good,” he murmured back, and waited.

Sherlock moved first, lacing Q into a hug.

Mycroft followed, and the strength of his arms were as ever: Q buried in the centre, protected from all harm, his brothers’ arms around him.


	94. Chapter 94

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pirate au please!!! 00Q or mormor- OR BOTH IF YOU’RE FEELING EXTRA AWESOME! There really isn’t enough pirate things in our world, especially in the fandoms <3 <3 thank you my lovelies <3 – lou-luvs-hats

Captain Bond leaned back, observing the other. Moriarty was known across the oceans; he was merciless, sadistic and very, very good at what he did. An alliance would be preferable: the powers that be were gaining more ground every day, and soon, no ship would be safe.

It didn’t stop him despising the man.

“Kidnap?” he asked, mulling the idea over. Moriarty was asking a high price: Sherlock Holmes in exchange for their truce. The Commander’s little brother – one of the most well-guarded people in existence.

“Yeeesssss,” Moriarty drawled, eyes fixed on Bond’s, his first mate handing over a goblet. ”Shouldn’t be too hard for a pirate of your calibre.”

 Bond watched them both, eyes narrowing slightly at the second-in-command; Moran, whom Bond had known for years during his days in the Navy, was a very vicious entity and a superb shot.

“It’s a bold move – what do you want with him?” Bond asked as Moriarty drank.

“That would be my business,” Moriarty told him firmly, wine dripping a little down his chin, eloquent fingers mopping it away. “I will not be killing or ransoming him if that is what concerns you.”

Bond nodded, considering the man’s proposal. Alec, his own first mate, held back waiting to hear the order.

“Give me two weeks.”

-

“It’s suicide.”

Q was the best navigator and general Quartermaster Bond had ever come across. Bright, brilliant and with no regard for the authority of a ship, he was a wonder and a liability. He had also ended up in the captain’s bed within a week.

“That’s not what I asked,” Bond replied, as Q returned to his maps.

Q looked over the top of his spectacles, eyebrow quirked upwards.“Fine: no, of course it isn’t possible. You are an idiot.”

Bond coughed, raising an eyebrow.

“You are an idiot, _sir_ ,” Q added, dipping his head in mock deference. “But seriously James, Sherlock Holmes? We would have to get into the Commander’s complex – disabling several guards – find his private rooms, remove him and get him out of a well-guarded city. It isn’t possible.”

Bond had the audacity to smirk. “It has to be – I’ve promised him to James Moriarty.”

Q froze.

“You did what?” he asked hollowly, maps forgotten.

Bond shifted, a little uncomfortably. “We needed an alliance, Holmes is his price.”

“He will kill us James. What the hell have you done?”

Bond reached out, gathering Q towards him and pressing his head to the man’s chest. “We can do this Q.”

Q shook his head, letting out a thin breath, calming himself as best he could. “We’re going to have to, aren’t we?”


	95. Chapter 95

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> love your stories <3 I was hoping for Bond!lock with centaurs, think that would be very cute to read – anon

One of the few things the siblings had ever agreed upon was the Bond was in no way right for Q. He was dangerous, erratic and his track record with partners was appalling. Naturally this did nothing to dissuade Q – if anything he would try harder to sneak out to meet the other creature whenever possible.

Sherlock angrily spent a long while trying to catch Q in the act, and repeatedly found himself several steps behind. It was absolutely  _infuriating_. Sherlock was an excellent tracker, but Q was persistent; Sherlock would enter a grove mere seconds after Q and his lover had vacated it.

In the end it came down to brute force.

Bond found himself staring down the wrong end of Mycroft’s bow.   
“Please, do give me one reason I should not shoot you where you stand?” Mycroft enunciated, each word sharp as the arrow pressing lightly against Bond’s chest.

“I mean him no harm,” Bond assured the other centaur, backing away and bowing his head a little in submission. “There is no reason to distrust me, I have shown no hostility, no harm.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “You appear to have designs on my sibling,” he stated drily. “I am here to inform you that this will cease, or I will have no option but to shoot you. Do I make myself quite entirely clear?”

Bond’s expression didn’t shift in the slightest. He stared back at Mycroft, hooves pawing the ground with something between anger and uncertainty. “Q is able to make his own choices,” he said cagily. “Speak to him, not me, if you are unhappy.”

“Shoot him.”

Bond looked neutrally over to the trees, where Sherlock was waiting behind the scenes, almost invisible. “That seems a little drastic,” he pointed out, still dangerously neutral. “I mean no harm. I care very deeply for Q.”

Sherlock snorted. Mycroft said nothing.

“ _Leave him alone_.”

“Any more humans in this forest, and it will become a breeding ground,” Bond muttered, smiling despite himself as Q barrelled out and threw himself at Bond, arms looping around him tightly.

Bond smirked, bucked his hips up to let Q straddle his back, arms tight around Bond’s naked chest. “I am not leaving him,” Q stated firmly. “Leave us both alone. I mean it. Mycroft, put down the bow.”

Slowly, Mycroft lowered it. “I will warn you once only: if you harm my sibling, I will not rest – and please bear in mind that Sherlock is an exemplary tracker – until your pelt is hanging in my front room, do I make myself clear?”

“Entirely,” Bond replied, and twisted, Q shooting daggers at Mycroft as they disappeared into the thick trees.


	96. Chapter 96

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> omg you’re amazing, can you please do a sequel to the q is behind the whole “did you miss me” thing? *showers you with chocolate* - isthisrubble

If there was one single way of trolling Sherlock, it was through anything around Moriarty. Q  _loved_ mocking Sherlock about Moriarty.

Not to mention that Sherlock had been exiled from the country, and Q really didn’t want to lose his brother. He liked Sherlock, despite their entire childhood and the existence of Mycroft. Sherlock was fun to have around, and his dying would be an extremely upsetting thing for everyone concerned.

Mycroft would also become  _ridiculously_  overprotective, and given that Q hadn’t yet told him that he was dating a double-oh agent, the last thing Q needed was for Mycroft to become too focused.

Thus, Q decided that he was going to have a  _lot_  of fun.

In an instant, he hooked into every large television screen in London. That much was the easy part, if he was quite honest. The more complex aspect was the smaller screens; the phones, the taxi screens, and eventually even iphones and anything with video capacity.

That was harder, but manageable.

_Did you miss me?_

Q would treasure Mycroft’s expression for the rest of his life. His brother froze in place, Q’s cameras capturing his expression eternally, horror and anger and confusion and it was  _amazing_ , Mycroft found it hilarious.

Of course, it took barely a few minutes for Mycroft to call the airplane Sherlock had been dispatched on; by Q’s calculations, it was less than five minutes away. Had barely reached altitude, in fact.

He watched on monitors, tracking the plane as it looped around in the air, Q neatly diverting flight paths to allow Sherlock’s plane a direct trajectory onto home soil.

Q’s phone rang.

“Hello.”

“I’m assuming you’re aware?”

Mycroft’s voice was harsh and fracturing, unsurprisingly. Q had rarely heard the man so tense.

“Naturally. I’m working on it as we speak, will hopefully have results imminently. Is Sherlock on his way back?”

For a moment, Q wondered if he had entirely blown his plan in the space of a few words. Mycroft was worryingly silent.

“… yes,” he replied, a little heavily. “Much though I resent having to say it, the man is better-versed with Moriarty than anybody else, far more so than myself. Thus, his return. I am certainly delighted about that aspect.”

Q smirked. “Are you?”

“More than you could know.”

A small heartbeat of silence.

For a while, both of them had honestly believed they had lost their brother forever, and it had been killing both of them. It had forced Q to hijack everything with a screen from London to Manchester, and for Mycroft to state aloud that he was inadequate at something.

Sherlock was coming home, and that was enough.


	97. Chapter 97

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you mind a Bondlock prompt? … Sherlock gets too caught up up in his deductions that Q has gone missing that even Sherlock couldn’t find him. Turns out Q was alright though and appeared just when Mycroft and their parents arrive home to greet them and to this day, even Sherlock still can’t figure out where Q was hiding. – exploding-pens

“‘Lock,” Q asserted, tugging on his big brother’s t-shirt as Sherlock looked down through his microscope. “‘Lock, what are you doing?” he asked, trying to jump onto Sherlock’s box.

Sherlock ignored him; after all, what could a four year old possibly understand about the structure of a virus.

“‘Lock, I want to help!” Q told him, abandoning the box and trying to pull himself up onto the table.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, not looking away from the lens. “Go away,” he muttered. Mummy and daddy had taken Mycroft to his denist appointment and so he had to watch the younger boy. They wouldn’t be more than an hour or so.

“ _Lock!_ " Q tried again, more petulant now, and was just bored.

Sherlock ignored him, and Q fell quiet - Sherlock had never been so grateful in his life - and he was able to continue as he had been.

And then he realised that Q had been quiet for a very, very long time.

In fact, according to his watch (matched to GMT exactly) Q had been quiet for about twenty minutes.

"…Q?" he asked, looking around the room. "Q, are you trying to play hide and seek?"

Sherlock looked down, trying to remember what Mycroft had said about working out where a person had gone judging by what they had left.

It seemed that Q had left a grand total of absolutely nothing, and Sherlock was faced with the horrific realisation that he had lost his brother. He had lost his younger, four-year-old brother.

Shit.

He begun to look, pulling out draws and opening every cupboard. Logic even managed to take a brief backseat as he found himself calling up the chimney, looking to shelves Q couldn’t possibly reach and, at one particularly bizarre point, the breadbin.

Panic absolutely paralysed Sherlock. Mycroft was going to kill him. Mycroft was going to kill him, and then gloat horrifically, and then kill him again, and leave the rest to be burnt alive by his parents

As he pulled out the laundry, the state of the house didn’t even begin to register. Underwear was strewn all over the floor (including Mycroft’s special exam pants - the ones with the umbrellas). Q was nowhere to be found.

"Q? Q! Come out, come out and I’ll let you use my microscope?" he tried, pulling off the sofa cushions. "I’ll teach you how to make a weak level poison? How to trap a tapeworm? … I’ll make those butterfly cakes you wanted to bake?"

Sherlock could hear a car.

"No no no no no no no," he muttered, and became ever more frantic. "Q, I swear, please, come out, please I’ll do anything, I’ll…"

Mycroft was getting out the car.

“‘Lo,” Q said happily.

Sherlock nearly passed out with sheer relief.

"Where have you been?" Sherlock hissed as the door opened. Mycroft walked in, looking as though someone had trashed his favourite computer game. He was also running his tongue around his newly tightened braces.

"Sherlock darling, I nipped into Tesco’s on the way, could you please pop the milk in the… what happened?" Mummy asked, looking around at the ruins of her once tidy living room.

Sherlock and Q grinned identical grins. “Nothing,” they said, in absolute unison.

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, as did Mummy’s, but they mercifully didn’t press the matter.

"I’m going to kill you," Sherlock hissed.

Q just smiled, and waved.


	98. Chapter 98

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi could you write a bondlock prompt were Q used to work for moriarty but stopped when he was offered a job in MI6, and now he has kidnap Q and is forcing him to work for him again. So Sherlock,John,Mycroft and James has to team up to save Q!(p.s i love your Writing) – anon

“Well. It’s definitely Q. The man has far too much flair, you can see his work from miles away,” Sherlock drawled, glancing through the rows of files and codes that meant only a little as compared to a true expert, but enough to give him what he required. Sherlock was aware that he needed to increase his expertise in programming languages, as it happened.

Mycroft sighed elaborately, rolling his eyes. “That is excellent news, but do we have any progress on his actual whereabouts?”

“ _Hello, boys and girls!_ ”

Q had beaten to hell, and Moriarty looked unapologetically delighted with the situation. “James, return Q to our custody,” Mycroft said tiredly. “This is all becoming rather wearisome, wouldn’t you think?”

Moriarty’s smile was crawling and unpleasant, head tilting eloquently to one side. “I could kill him,” he pointed out lullingly. “Would that be good? Kill our dear little Quartermaster before your fine MI units do it for me?”

Bond and John exchanged looks; Bond had been deeply concerned about Q’s life expectancy in MI6 from the outset, an impression not especially assisted by the sheer levels of danger Bond tended to find himself in.

“We’re coming for you,” Bond promised Q, his voice low and steady. “Just hold on, Q.”

Q smiled distantly, nodded. “I know,” he replied simply.

“Touching,” Moriarty acceded, with a worrying glint in his expression. “But this is the question: did you fine people know about Q’s past? His affiliations? How he became employed in the first place?”

Q let out a low sound, something like grief, eyes closing with a type of defeated hate. “You bastard,” he rasped.

Moriarty hit him around the face with horrific viciousness, and Q fell silent.

“Our Q here used to work for me.”

The silence was cloying and all-encompassing, Sherlock looking like the world had been snatched from beneath his feet, Mycroft tight-lipped and furious and Bond just still, neutral in the way Q knew to be something like anger, something like shock.

The video cut out.


	99. Chapter 99

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I ship Bondlock and you guys too, which is perfect! What if somehow Q and Mycroft helped Sherlock write the best man speech? please have fun and put some domestic Bondlock! – anon

“No, no  _no_ ,” Mycroft raised a hand as Sherlock paused. “Do you wish to sound like a complete imbecile?”   
“Well those listening will be…”  
“Perfectly normal people,” Q finished, not looking up from his laptop, merely shaking his h  
“Ie, imbecile,” Sherlock commented, keeping the card.

Mycroft cast a hand skyward, and rolled his eyes dramatically. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered, every inch a performer, waving at Sherlock in a dispassionate manner. “Do as you will, you are irretrievable. I give up quite entirely. Do as you will. I shall not be attending, in any case.”

Q and Sherlock both looked up at him, utterly horrified. “What?”

Mycroft blinked, tangibly confused. “… what?” he asked, a little slowly, evidently confused. “Naturally I’m not going, it is hardly my  _scene_ , as they say.”

“Well  _I’ve_  been forced into going, and I had to buy a suit and  _everything_.”

It was Q’s turn to be glared at. “You only bought that under coercion from your  _boyfriend_ ,” Sherlock said contemptuously.

Q just raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I’m wearing it to  _your_  boyfriend’s wedding.”

Sherlock whitened, and Mycroft batted Q around the head with a rolled-up newspaper.

“Sorry,” Q muttered, looking balefully at his eldest sibling.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “To be fair to both of you, we truly are only here to ensure you do not either destroy the wedding, or indeed relapse,” he said neutrally; Q snickered, while Sherlock grabbed the rolled-up newspaper and proceeded to batter Q senseless with the sodding thing.

“ _Oi_ ,” Q yelped, ducking out the way. “ _Stop it_. Myc, make him…”

“… you started it…”

Q’s phone rang.

A moment later, Mycroft’s did the same thing.

“Fuck,” they said, in near enough unison.

“Q.”

“Mycroft Holmes.”

Sherlock glanced between both of them, cards held between loose fingers, looking rather panicked as his brother babbled quickly down the phone to unseen people, and both seemed to come to the conclusion that they needed to leave post-haste.

“You can’t leave,” Sherlock burbled, waving the cards at them uselessly. “You can’t.”

Q raised an eyebrow, and grabbed for his parka. “Sorry, you’re on your own.”

“God help us all,” Mycroft continued, fetching the umbrella. “Sherlock, email me through whatever you decide upon. I would suggest contacting other… other acquaintances of yours, if you would.”

Sherlock let out a strange, strangled sound, and gesticulated at the cards.

Q and Mycroft bid him a fond(ish) farewell, and left Sherlock to mourn the English language and the infinite weirdness of other people.


	100. Chapter 100

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just read your drunk teen!Q fill, and a prompt just poped in my head… Maybe it’s getting a habit for Q to drink his ass out, since then his big brother(s?) care for him and he missed that so much when younger. So we see a young adult!Q, basically drunk all the time, and his bros come to see him and make him realise that it is actually an issue, and Q keeps saying that no, he is not an alcoholic, and overall getting plain out pissed at them, and a little violent..? You’re awsome, thank you! – manon-in-the-stars

The knock was always too sharp, too bloody polite.

"Go away!" Q yelled through the door, really not wishing to see his elder brother at the moment. His high powered, career obsessed, so far up his own arse he could taste his tonsils, elder brother.

"Open the door," Mycroft called. "Else we will simply come in."

We.

Sherlock.

Shit.

Q just ignored it. They’d barge in regardless, and Q just didn’t care any more, they could just fuck the fuck off and leave him alone; the door was mercifully not trashed in their entry, and Q looked up lazily and remained grateful for the lock being intact.

Mycroft looked every inch the condescending bastard he’d always been. “’Lo,” Q waved, a little sarcastically. “So how’s running the country going?”

Sherlock was very funny indeed, simply because he didn’t bother to pontificate or cut corners: “You’re an alcoholic.”  
Q just giggled.

Mycroft and Sherlock weren’t laughing, which seemed a little unfair. “Is that it?” Q asked eventually, raising an eyebrow. “You broke into my house for a spurious accusation?”

Fuck, he needed another drink to deal with the pair of them.

“It’s regrettably fact,” Mycroft supplemented drily. “Q, we are concerned about you. You have not been at work, you are no longer coherent, and you are eventually going to burn out. This may be considered an intervention.”

Q blinked. “A what?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes elaborately. “An intervention. Where we establish that you are an alcoholic, and take you to rehab. I’m sure you recall when you and Mycroft sprung the same upon me.”

That had been one hell of an event. Sherlock had nearly stabbed Mycroft with his own umbrella.

Given Mycroft’s pitying, condescending expression, Q empathised.

“Fuck off, the pair of you.”

Both ignored him. “We are taking you to rehab. Please come quietly.”

Q refused to move. “I’m not an alcoholic. Piss off.”

Mycroft glanced to Sherlock. “Restrain him, and I will sedate if required,” he said drily. “Q, how much have you drunk today?”

Naturally, Q just ignored him, and – abruptly – Sherlock was moving.

Q kicked him in the groin. Sherlock hissed, snarled, and pounced on his mercifully uncoordinated brother; Q started  _screaming_ , thrashing, kicking out while Sherlock pinned him against the floor, and Mycroft came closer with a syringe.

“You  _fucks_ , get the fuck away from me…”

The sting didn’t even register.

Q was still swearing as he passed out, mumbling to himself, eyes rolling back in his head with a final curse.


	101. Chapter 101

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could I have something angsty where Q has major self-esteem issues because Mycroft and Sherlock are just mean. Made him feel stupid and useless as a kid because they probably think having another brother is totally surplus to requirements? – anon

“I just can’t cook,” Q shrugged, as Bond offered him the wooden spoon.

"Have you ever tried?" Bond asked, bopped his partner on the noise with the end of the spoon.

"Of course, and I can’t," Q told him simply. Flour everywhere, half burnt cupcakes, icing so sickly even Mycroft turned his nose up. Sherlock made mummy new ones, she wouldn’t have liked Q’s.

Bond looked at him, sensing a slight sadness in his tone that was nothing to do with Q’s cooking skills. “Q?”

Q didn’t look at him, shrugging slightly. “I’m not very good at things like this. Myc and Sherlock were always the… they were better. I was just so shit at everything… s’why I don’t do a lot of these things, computers were the only thing I could do properly, and they thought that was pointless anyway so it’s nice to be Quartermaster, I mean, I think Mycroft actually started to respect me a bit after that…”

Bond was watching him, expression quietly troubled. “Q, you’re not shit at everything.”

Q let out a slightly sharp, bitter laugh. “You’d be surprised. Everything DIY breaks, my cooking is disastrous, I can’t play instruments, can’t do sports, not especially clever outside my computers…”

“Q, that’s ridiculous,” he said sharply. “You’re  _ridiculously_  intelligent…”

Again, a slightly sharp laugh. “You’d be surprised. Mycroft and Sherlock are brilliant. I’m just not. I’m… I was always spare, and that’s fine, I got kind of used to it.”

Bond looked quietly, gently horrified. He pulled Q away from the bowl of perfectly weighed-out flour, and slipped his hands around Q’s waist, tugging him closer. “You’re never, ever spare,” he said firmly. “Ever. They were  _wrong_. You’re brilliant, absolutely brilliant. Think about it; they’re socially inept, thoughtless, callous, Mycroft would probably have a heart attack if he tried to run too fast, Sherlock is deeply damaged and an ex-drug addict…”

Q looked at him, eyes downcast, huge behind his glasses. “Yeah, but they’re better,” he murmured.

Bond smiled very slightly, hand cupping Q’s face, thumb running over his cheekbones. “No,” he murmured. “They’re not, and I will show you. I promise. You’re better than they will ever,  _ever_  know, and I’m just so sorry.”

“You have to say that, you’re my boyfriend,” he said with a small smile.

Again, Bond bopped him on the nose. “ _And_  because I’m right,” he smirked, and cuddled Q close, absolutely determined that he would prove that the Holmes brothers had been – and  _were_  – wrong.


	102. Chapter 102

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You guys are utterly awesome in every way and I love you to bits! I have a prompt request… it’s sort of a pet hate of mine. There’s quite a few fics out there where John and Bond already know each other because they were both in the military. But Bond was in the navy and John was in Afghanistan, which is landlocked :-p So how would they have met? Answer: The Army-Navy Rugby match! – anon

The Army were absolutely thrashing them.

Bond found it deeply annoying.

The main problem was a blond bloke, wearing the stripes of a medical unit; a doctor,  _and_  by far the best rugby player of the army team. Bond wasn’t sure whether to hate or admire the man, and settled for watching him with his most intimidating stare.

“John Watson.”

The man was standing in front of him, hand extended, expression neutral but in no sense forbidding. Bond returned a smile – one of the more charming in his collection – and shook the man’s hand warmly. “Bond. James Bond.”

“Navy?”

“Commander. Medical?”

“Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, drafted to Afghanistan and leaving next week.”

Watson seemed like a decent enough man. Bond was fairly fond of him already. “Excellent. So – Watson, yes? – what do you do when you’re not here?”

“Firstly, call me John,” he told Bond amicably. “Secondly, I don’t really know. I was working in various hospitals in London before going into the army, so I haven’t had much time outside.”

That much, Bond could understand. “I went in after university, haven’t been back in the UK for a while,” he shrugged; this particular sojourn was a rare occasion, and Bond had only gone because his superiors had been rather unhappy that he spent no time whatsoever doing team-building or equivalents. He had therefore been forced into the match.

“You’re a damn good rugby player.”

John grinned in spite of himself. “There’s my entire childhood. You’re not bad yourself.”

“Private school,” Bond snorted. “Everybody’s good at rugby there. You’re all trouncing us overall, though.”

“Should be over soon enough,” John smirked. “Drink, afterwards?”

Bond thought for a moment. He probably should be returning for general small talk and conversations with higher-up parts of the navy, but quite frankly, he couldn’t care less about the same suited and booted men who would tell him the same things.

“Excellent. I know a good bar.”

John grinned. “Find me afterwards. I have a match to win.”

“You haven’t won yet,” Bond called after him, and watched John’s shoulders shake with suppressed laughter as he jogged back to his team.

The Army won by an obscene quantity.

John would never let him live it down.


	103. Chapter 103

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q had been Moriarty’s mole inside MI5 since he was first recruited, they’ve been in love since late teens. Q is found out and tortured wherein his true colours show and Jim razes hell without mercy to get him back. One-sided Bond/Q on Bonds part maybe? – anon

Q’s eyes were sharp and merciless and almost  _black_  with unapologetic  _madness_. Bond didn’t have another word for it. Q had been beaten to within an inch of his life, and was now crumpled in the corner of his cell with blood trickling down his chin and his arm quite transparently not attached to its socket.

“He’ll come for me,” he promised, voice slightly sluggish. “I’m looking forward to what he does for you…”

Bond stood impassively. “You infiltrated MI6 for the sake of what, exactly? Your boyfriend’s domination?”

Q laughed, more blood falling down his chin, the laugh moving into a rather wet cough that made Q suck air through his teeth. “You think it’s just Jim’s?” he asked lightly, a moment later. “You are all so _naïve_. Why? Because I’m younger and more delicate, is that it?”

There was no good answer, so Bond didn’t give one. Q snorted derisively. “Fuck off, I’m expecting the next round,” he told Bond imperiously, and shooed him away as the door opened, admitting another man in a perfect suit. “Good evening,” Q said with a cocky smirk, and watched Bond walk away.

-

The next time Q saw Bond, several things had changed.

1)      Q was unable to walk.

2)      Bond was bleeding and livid.

3)      Half of MI6 was on fire.

Q was grinning madly, because thank  _fuck_ , it was nearly over. He could hear it, feel it; Jim was coming for him, his Jim, rescuing him in a way comparable to Jim’s incarceration for a brief period in Germany.

The door slammed open. Q let out a sigh of relief and joy and want: “Honey, I’m home,” Jim said brightly, sauntering in with his usual nonchalance.

“You’re fucking late,” Q rasped, as Jim moved to him and simply kissed him. Blood mingled in both their mouths and Q lifted his working arm to pull Jim closer, with all the passion he had.

The pair of them knew they could die any instant. Every second counted, so the pair exploited every one they had.

“We need to move,” Jim told him with surprising gentleness, moving strange of limp hair out of Q’s eyes. “I’m going to drug you. See you at home.”

Q nodded, eyes sliding shut, trusting Jim entirely.


	104. Chapter 104

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Definitely BONDLOCK! I had this sort of image in my head. What if Mycroft and Sherlock still have the habit to call Q by their last name (Holmes), and one day Q gets all angry and tells them that he is not a Holmes anymore, he is now Bond. I think it will be fun. thanks! – anon

“Yes, Q Holmes is…”

“Alright, that is  _enough_.”

Mycroft was on the phone to some diplomat or another, and Q had so many problems with his attitude he had near-enough lost his mind.

Firstly, he should never have been known as anything even  _faintly_  connected to the Holmes family. It was irresponsible to be releasing his family name, for the sake of everybody concerned. In Mycroft’s defence, not having a name was more for the protection of family than anything else, if they were civilians; the Holmes were already targets in every conceivable manner, making it sincerely unlikely that Q could make it worse.

The second problem was far more profound.

“Mycroft, I am  _married_ ,” Q ranted, voice high and a little strained. “This is  _ridiculous_. I have been married for nearly a year and a half and you are  _still_ point-blank refusing to call me by my married name. I am Bond. I am Q Bond and I am extremely proud of being so, so you’d better get bloody used to it.”

Both Mycroft and Sherlock – who had been invading Mycroft’s flat along with Q on a regular basis to catch up, in spite of his supposed ‘dislike’ for their eldest brother – blinked in shock.

Sherlock was the first to retrieve speech. “Q, why the vehemence?”

“I have a partner. I need to be treated like more than just your baby brother, it’s not fair – let me be known as not your sibling, now. I have a life of my own.”

“We know,” Mycroft replied carefully, with a touch of familiar condescension that Q instantly bristled at. “Q…”

“ _You treat me like a child_.”

Sherlock snorted, and Q whipped around ferociously; Sherlock mockingly raised hands in a pseudo-surrender, and narrowly avoided a whack around the face. “You’re being absurd.”

Q reeled back, the ring on his finger feeling warm, comforting. “Am I?” he hissed. “When have you  _ever_ thought of me as an adult?”

Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged the glances of two people accustomed to their baby brother being petulant, and Q nearly  _screamed_. “You’re barely an adult,” Mycroft told him, with the faintest shadow of an apology.

Q just stared at them, flat and unforgiving. “You will call me by my married name,” he said simply, firmly. “You will remember I am a high-ranking MI6 member, married, and happy. Yes?”

Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged another glance.

It wasn’t worth arguing.

They nodded in perfect unison.


	105. Chapter 105

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After seeing that fic where Sherlock and Mycroft care a lot about Q, I was wondering if you could write a fic which shows why Q is so important to them. *throws flowers and runs away. – anon

Mycroft had been twelve upon being first introduced to his youngest sibling.

After five years managing to exist within the nightmarish sphere of Sherlock’s influences, meeting a somewhat quieter and less chaotic creature was rather welcome. True; the child would grow, and would doubtless be just as difficult, but the creature Mycroft was presented with was fragile in a way Mycroft could not equate with inevitable chaos.

No: this child was something Mycroft had to protect, and he had every intention of doing precisely that.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was just  _besotted_. Five years old, and held the baby as though he was likely to make it implode simply by looking at it wrong.

In Sherlock’s defence, he made a  _lot_  of things either implode or explode with very little warning and occasionally with limited idea of how he’d done it; the chances of him exploding a baby were concerningly high.

“You two are going to have to take of him,” their parents had said.

Mycroft and Sherlock had long since committed themselves to that idea.

-

“Q, you’re…”

Q twisted to them, expression livid and electric and alive.

Mycroft was able to suppress the smile that crept along the corners of his lips, the memories of a child at every stage of growing; Mycroft had been old enough to remember every fragment of his youngest brother’s development, in a way he hadn’t even quite been able to manage with Sherlock.

Now, Q was an adult. Job, life, partner. It seemed curiously impossible.

“… and I care about him, he’s my  _partner_ , that isn’t going to go away simply because you and Sherlock had grown unnecessarily irate about…”

Mycroft was not even slightly listening to Q’s rant. His mind was occupied in the least likely of his occupations: simply reminiscing, indulging in memories from Q’s first boyfriend, his first girlfriend, the day he’d told Mycroft he was never, ever, ever going to be with somebody because “they’re all horrid” and had promptly cried for two hours near enough without stopping, when Q had snuck into his room in the middle of the night when Mycroft had broken up with his own boyfriend and glued himself to his eldest sibling, and Sherlock had joined half an hour later out of jealousy when his pride had finally snapped.

Q would always be a child to him.

“I am only expressing a necessary interest in your safety,” Mycroft told him, with infuriating calm. “Try to remember that I am solely motivated by you.”

Q raised an eyebrow. “Then  _let me make my own decisions_.”

Sherlock, who had been amusingly quiet for a while, just snorted. Q threw a wet teabag at him, simply as he had nothing else to hand, and Sherlock yelped but seemed to get the idea. “Sherlock,” Mycroft said, warningly.

To both Q and Mycroft’s surprise, Sherlock actually did as bidden, and then promptly sulked.

“If anything happens to you…”

“You can kill him,” Q agreed wearily. “I won’t even try to stop you. Are you happy?”

Sherlock made another disparaging noise, trying to blot tea out of his shirt with an expression of martyred contempt. “Fine,” he muttered.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, far more kindly.

Q looked at him, and his smile was that of a far younger child.

Mycroft couldn’t have denied him a thing if he’d tried.


	106. Chapter 106

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just read your newest Bondlock! I adore Sherlock looking over Q. (I also like Myc, but with Sherlock has more meaning) I want some Kidlock! What if Sherlock was the one that taught Q how to do deductions. Bonus points if Myc sees from a secret place. (Hint: Myc taught Sherlock to make deductions) Thank you for all the feels!! – anon

“No,  _no_ ,” Sherlock said petulantly. “Look.”

Q squinted. “M’looking.”

“Look  _harder_.”

Q squinted with even more effort, so much so that his eyes were very crinkly and he couldn’t really see anything any more.

Sherlock let out an elaborate sigh, and threw himself onto the ground with exquisite melodrama. “You can’t be taught,” he declared. “You’ll never been a deductionist.”

He didn’t quite anticipate that Q would respond to that statement by instantly breaking into floods of horrified and pained and desperate tears. Sherlock had absolutely no idea how to fix it.

“No no  _shh_  it’s fine you’re clever,” he said hastily, trying to calm Q down and succeeding in swatting him in the face instead, which made Q wail twice as loudly and start to sob in earnest.

Sat in the gardenias, Mycroft was trying very hard not to cackle with laughter.

Q was past the point of redemption, and Sherlock had no clue what to do with him. “You’re clever you’re clever you’re clever you’re clever,” Sherlock was repeating, as fast as he was able to speak. “Look. Shoes.”

The younger boy sniffled, and looked at the shoes that they had both been staring at. “Mud,” he said firmly, almost defiantly, snot dribbling inelegantly out of his nose. “Lots of mud.”

“But…”

“S’not been raining,” Q deduced.

Sherlock grinned, with admittedly somewhat nervous encouragement. “Yes,” he said slowly. “And…?”

Q began to look upset again. Sherlock’s eyes widened almost comically.

“ _I wanna be a deductionistists,_ ” Q bawled, and began to sob in earnest once again.

Neither of them had noticed their older brother. Mycroft was not even being that subtle.

The pair were entrancing to watch. Clever and stupid and wonderful in equal measure; Mycroft considered himself somewhat blessed to have two such extraordinary siblings, even as the youngest began to screech and the middle one looked like he was debating a homicide of his own to shut said youngest up.

Going back to school would be hard, Mycroft mused. He would miss them.

Slowly but surely, Sherlock calmed Q down. Slowly, Q began to understand, much as Sherlock had when Mycroft had first presented him with a pair of shoes and began to explain the infinitude of things to see.

Mycroft watched a little longer, before quietly, unnoticed, slipping out of sight.


	107. Chapter 107

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I know you must have a million and one prompts to fill, but I was hoping to add one to the pile! I know quite a lot of people hate Mary, but personally I think she’s utterly awesome! I love how they actually made her an interesting character and how well she gets on with Sherlock. So could you write me something with her? I’d quite like a Bondlock, but to be honest as long as there’s lots of Mary being awesome I’ll leave the rest totally up to you! Thank you so much! – anon

“Mrs Watson?”

Mary turned, instantly taking in every inch of Bond’s body, documenting him in every way she knew; he could sense the way his pressure points were identified, his weaponry, his intention, immediacy of attack.

Some habits died very hard.

The flash of recognition. “James?”

Bond grinned, all teeth. “Mary Watson,” he confirmed, getting an answering nod. “Didn’t imagine I’d see you back here.”

“Well, no,” she conceded. “I thought you were long dead.”

“Everybody seems to think that.”

Mary smiled, almost in spite of herself. “Drinks, I reckon?” she suggested, tilting her head further down the street, to where she knew a very good pub was waiting. “You’re still on the martinis…”

“And you’re  _married_ ,” Bond pointed out.

Mary honestly seemed to light up somehow at the remembrance of that fact, seemed to be suddenly more alive than Bond remembered seeing her last. She had been an angular shadow then, black and forbidding, as Bond himself had been.

Both of them had changed almost beyond recognition.

“He’s a good man,” she told him. “Too good for me, I suppose, but he married me anyway…”

Bond held up his own left hand. “I know the feeling.”

Mary’s eyes widened. “No. No, you’re taking the piss. James Bond, confirmed bachelor? You tried to sleep with  _me_  once, there’s no  _way_  you…”

“I’m your brother-in-law, of a sense.”

As the story became less easily credible, Bond could see the warning signs of an ex-agent creep back; her suspicion was unreadable to most, but Bond knew people, knew  _her_ , too well. “I married Sherlock’s younger brother,” Bond laughed. “Given Sherlock and John’s…”

Mary finally realised, and outright whacked him. Bond took a step back, snorting, Mary’s strength taking him by surprise as it always had. “Drinks,” she told him firmly, shaking her head, trying and failing not to laugh. “And you can explain how in the hell that happened.”

“He’s a good man.”

Mary blinked. The penny dropped.

 “ _He?_ ”


	108. Chapter 108

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’ve read a lot of Bondlocks fics, and i’m starting yours, and that’s a wonderful crossover…But Q is always a Holmes, one time i’ve seen him being Moriarty’s brother, so i would like to propose something different: Q is the half-brother , so much younger, of Lestrade… How would Greg react to 00Q? – anon

Greg was one of the greatest pragmatists Q would ever know, and he considered himself immensely fortunate to have the man as his brother.  They had bene extremely close for as long as Q could remember – regardless of geography – and Q could honestly say Greg was one of very few people in the world he truly trusted.

When Ellie left, Q was the one to get there first. To sit by his brother on the sofa, holding the older man in his arms until he fell asleep, wake him with tea and toast and make him take a shower, go to work, reclaim his life in fragments.

“I have a boyfriend,” Q admitted, and Greg grinned; he was tangibly delighted. Q had always been fairly lonely, and Greg had hoped for a long while that he’d find somebody nice to date steadily.

Thus, he put the kettle on, retrieving the battered packet of Earl Grey he kept for Q’s benefit, and started asking questions.

Q was concerningly quiet. “You won’t like it,” he said, a touch hesitantly. “I mean, let me preface this by saying he cares a lot about me, and would never hurt me…”

Greg pulled himself up a little. “Okay…” he tried, keeping himself vaguely collected. “Go on?”

“He works for the government,” Q continued, “and we work together, sort-of, I…”

“Is he an agent?”

Q swallowed slightly, and nodded. Greg was going to kill him a little bit.

“A double-oh agent.”

To Q’s tremendous surprise, Greg didn’t immediately fly off the handle. Actually, he seemed rather collected about the possibility. “A double-oh?” he repeated, waiting for Q’s answering nod. “Alright. Well. Your funeral. Or his, more likely.”

Q tried to whack him, and was snagged midway by his elder brother; Greg grinned at him, waiting for Q to relax again before continuing: “If you’re happy, I’m happy for you. I want you to remember that when you finish hearing  _my_  current news.”

Always an ominous threat. Q’s expression remained carefully still, wondering what on earth Greg could have to tell him, the worst-case scenario being that he’d somehow tried or succeeded on going back to Ellie which would be  _such a bad plan_  it made Q feel vaguely nauseous, the worry over  _that_ almost enough to make him miss Greg utter one of the most frightening sentences Q had ever heard:  
“I’m dating Mycroft Holmes.”


	109. Chapter 109

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could you write a Bondlock where when Q was very little, he unintentionally did something that led to Redbeard’s death, and because of that, Sherlock hasn’t spoken to Q since, and Mycroft doesn’t really care. This leads to Q being very depressed in his teenage years. James finds an old family picture, and Q explains what happened with him and his brothers. James goes to confront Sherlock, and make him apologize to Q. – thewonderfulthingaboutfish

“He killed my dog.”

“He was seven years old,” Bond protested, as John poured him another cup of tea wearily. “From what I hear, you blew up half his room and nearly severed his ear and he managed to forgive you.”

Sherlock paused, raised an eyebrow and took another sip.

“John?” Bond asked, turning to his friend.

John shrugged. “Staying out of it, mate,” he replied apologetically, and very swiftly disappeared to put the kettle on. Again.

Bond stared at Sherlock, unforgiving.

Sherlock, being Sherlock, stared straight back.

There was something in Sherlock’s expression that was curiously haunted; Bond couldn’t work it out, couldn’t quite grasp what he was missing in the man that was making him  _this_.

“He loves you,” Bond pointed out quietly.

Sherlock had the audacity to let out a small, derisive snort.

“Other than  _an accident when he was a child_ , how can you deny that?”

The other man’s jaw tightened slightly, eyes darting in small convulsions, unfocused.

“You don’t know, do you?” Bond asked quietly, with just an encroaching edge of anger. “You haven’t spoken to him, in  _years_ , and…”

Sherlock stood, and walked into the kitchen, signalling a very abrupt end to their conversation. Bond watched him go, trying not to  _hiss_  with anger.

-

“I’m sorry.”  
Q blinked. Frankly, he didn’t have the slightest idea what to say. “Sorry?” he asked, a touch uncertainly; Sherlock hadn’t directed a single word at him in over a decade, let alone an honest-to-god apology.

Sherlock looked like he would far rather gnaw off his own arm and beat himself to death with it than repeat what he had said. “I’m  _sorry_ ,” he emphasised, a touch petulantly. “For not speaking to you.”

For a solid thirty seconds, Q was rendered speechless.

“Why  _now_?” he managed, eventually.

Sherlock evidently had no idea how to respond to a question of that nature. Mostly because he did not want to tell his younger brother that he had been scared into it by his own partner; John had told Sherlock, in no uncertain terms, that his behaviour was unacceptable.

_“Staying out of it, my arse,” Sherlock had griped, and reluctantly gone to tell Bond he would deal with it._

Q looked at him. Stared, mostly.

“I missed you.”

Sherlock prayed, abruptly and violently, that Q wasn’t about to cry.

No.

No, it was far worse.

Q  _hugged him_.


	110. Chapter 110

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I was just listening to “Rude” by MAGIC and it made me thing of your fem!Q overprotective Holmes boys story and I was wondering if you could do something with that please? Like James asks Mycroft and Sherlock permission and how that goes? Love you and your writing too!!!!!!! Thanks for making my day all the time!!! – anon

It had to be said: Mycroft and Sherlock were, when put together, probably the most terrifying force of nature James Bond would ever come across. Bond prided himself on fearing extremely little, and frankly, he  _didn’t_  fear much; with Sherlock and Mycroft, he made a notable and very important exception.

And so, meeting both for tea was always going to be a very vital thing.

“How may we be of assistance?”

Bond swallowed, wishing for something considerably stronger than tea. “I need to discuss Q.”

Both Holmes siblings had identical expressions. Bond tried to find words. Neither of them gave him an inch.

“I… well. I need to speak to you both about the future.”

“You owe me money,” Sherlock told Mycroft, without apology, before turning to Bond. “I’m assuming you’ve finally elected to propose?”

Bond’s eyes widened very slightly.

Mycroft took a sip of tea, implacable to the last.

“… yes?” Bond managed.

Fucking hell, the Holmes brothers were terrifying entities. Bond was rapidly considering the possibility that they would kill him for it, for deigning to propose, for being involved with their youngest sibling.

Bond hoped his death wouldn’t be slow.

Mycroft heaved a sigh. “You wish for our blessing?”

Bond didn’t trust himself to anything other than nod.

“No,” Sherlock said firmly.

Mycroft rolled his eyes with sheer exasperation. “Yes,” he contradicted directly, making Sherlock glance over, eyes wide and horrified and livid. “Sherlock, this is for  _Q_.”

“You’re a double-oh agent.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “I noticed. I love him. I will look after him.”

Mycroft looked quietly, subtly, more than content. Of both the brothers, Bond had more frightened of Mycroft’s reaction than Sherlock’s; he appeared to have won over the more ostensibly scary one.

Sherlock was still Not Happy.

“It isn’t your choice,” Bond reminded Sherlock quietly; the latter hissed, actually, honest-to-god  _hissed_. “He may turn me down.”

The idea made Bond feel slightly sick, but it was a possibility, obviously.

Mycroft sipped his tea. Sherlock malevolently bit into a scone.

“So: may I?”

Sherlock scowled, nodded. “If you hurt him, I will kill you.”

“I will assist.”

Bond let out a slow breath, feeling bizarrely relieved. “I don’t doubt it,” he nodded. “Thank you both.”

Never, in his life, could Bond recall moving quite so fast as he scrambled out the door.


	111. Chapter 111

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re such amazing writers! I’m totally in awe of how well you write in totally different genres. I wondered if I could ask you for some Bondlock angst? Q was abused as a child, maybe by a teacher? But Mycroft and Sherlock had no idea, despite their super-deductive skills. Then they find out years later, at which point we have lots of family angst. Thank you so much! (P.s. you’re awesome) – anon

“Q. You ordered a hit.”

Q glanced up, looking over his eldest brother. He had been expecting Mycroft’s arrival for a while, and the man was never late; a pot of tea sat on the desk, with a slice of carrot cake next to it. “Yes, I did,” he agreed. “Reported dead precisely forty-one minutes ago, you got across London remarkably quickly.”

Mycroft looked suitably surprised. Q smiled very slightly. “… and why, pray, did you find it necessary to order a clandestine hit on a man with  _absolutely_  no criminal record, nor possible terrorist affiliations? He was your tutor. This is tantamount to murder.”

“I think you will find that it  _is_  murder, Mycroft,” Q replied calmly. “I would like you to ensure I do not go to prison. Have some tea, by the way.”

Mycroft sat down, looking remarkably composed. “Why would I prevent your arrest?”

 “I was sexually abused by him, for over two and a half years. I was going to ignore it and move on, as one would expect, until I ascertained that he has been ‘privately tutoring’ children ever since; there are doubts in my mind as to his actions, and so for the good of a wider society, I employed Bond to kill him. Suffice it to say that Bond did not require encouragement. Naturally, he was working under direct orders, so he is no sense responsible for the death/”

Mycroft was silent for twenty-seven seconds. Q waited patiently, and poured himself a cup of tea. He took the liberty of doing the same for Mycroft.

“We would have known,” Mycroft broached, eventually. “You could not have…”

“Have we not established yet that I am  _just as intelligent_  as the pair of you?!” Q snapped, anger rolling up his spine with a shuddering force. “I hid it, Mycroft, of course I bloody did. He threatened me, as you might imagine, and indeed threatened both of you – I was a child, I did what I had to, and I was clever enough to manage it. If this is going to turn into you with a bruised ego, you can fuck off out of my office and I’ll go to prison quite happily. Understood?”

Another protracted silent. Forty-three seconds. “I’m sorry,” Mycroft said, very simply. “I failed to protect you.”

Q’s voice was small, very fragile suddenly; Mycroft could see his baby brother in that tone of voice, the tremulous soprano of a boy half his age suddenly ringing through. “I don’t want to go to prison,” he admitted softly. “I shouldn’t have killed him, but I  _don’t regret it_ , My. I don’t. And I don’t want to go to prison for this. Pull strings. Please.”

“I don’t believe I could be compelled to do anything else,” Mycroft confessed, with a small smile that Q returned in kind. “Q – you are safe now, yes? And you understand that I can, and will, always ensure your safety to the best of abilities?”

“You always did,” Q told him. “You couldn’t have done anything else. So just, keep me out of prison?”

Mycroft looked at him, a long look. “This situation cannot repeat itself. If there are other skeletons in any closets, refer them to me. Apart from anything else, I am able to order kills that are untraceable and have no paperwork attached; it will be safer for your job prospects.”

Q blinked, before letting out a strange, startled laugh. “Understood,” he managed. “Now eat your cake.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and his fork.


	112. Chapter 112

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q is the eldest Holmes brother, not the youngest despite his appearance. (He helped Mycroft become the “British government”.) He is also the mediator of the family as well as the most protective of his other siblings. – anon

Q sighed slightly, and drummed his fingers against the table-top. “Mycroft, what in the hell are you doing?”

Mycroft – impressively – sounded sheepish. Truly and honestly sheepish.

“I’m having some… issues… with Sherlock.”

Q rolled his eyes skyward. Mycroft was a nightmare. Sherlock was too. The pair of them were small children with too much time and intelligence on their hands, and Mycroft – for all his brilliance – was petulant in the extreme.

“… and this affair with James Moriarty…”

“That is in hand,” Q interrupted. “He’s in custody, yours to do whatever you will. I’m leaving you to deal with it.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “I am no longer your pawn, Q.”

“No, but you owe me, and I will continue to exploit that for all I’m worth,” Q returned brightly. “Now shoo, I have work to do.”

Q only ‘shooed’ Mycroft when he wanted to be annoying, and it worked like a charm; he hissed slightly and disappeared off.

Less than an hour later, Q’s mobile rang. “Yes, brother-mine?”

“You and Mycroft are meddling.”

“I’m not meddling.”

“You  _are_  meddling.”

“Sherlock, grow up.”

“ _You are meddling_.”

“I will hang up,” Q warned; Sherlock was quiet, but Q could hear the half-muttered  _meddling_  Sherlock said under his breath. “Good. Now – stop getting aggressive. We are trying to establish your safety.”

“By kidnapping John?”

Q smirked slightly. “By kidnapping John. By the way, you  _never_  call; is everything alright?”

“Mycroft is being difficult.”

Patience. A virtue. Q had to remember that. Cultivate it. Not kill his siblings. “Go on?” Q sighed instead, already knowing; it would be identical to Mycroft’s whining earlier on in the day, with the pair getting cross over Sherlock’s exploits in the criminal world, wasting his life, his flatmate, his lack of ambition. Mycroft couldn’t resist trying to ‘better’ Sherlock, what with his intellect and potential.

Q left Sherlock alone, because the man was content, and it was his life to lead. Mycroft meant well, but was tragically misguided.

“Okay,” Q nodded, “and did you take his case? He was really angling for your help, Sherlock, it’s a big one…”

“… he doesn’t  _need_  my help…”

Q rolled his eyes. “Yes, he does,” he told Sherlock, placatory. “Now. Head out of arse, accept the case, and he’ll get off your back. Agreed?”

Sherlock growled slightly under his breath. “Fine.”

Q let out a breath, thanking every god under the sun, and hung up.

He had about twenty-four hours before the next crisis.


	113. Chapter 113

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hello beauties!! how’s everything? I was hit by an idea today: I’m not much into bondlock, not in the “Q is a Holmes” kind at least, but I’d really love to read a fic where The Government (aka Mycroft Holmes) noses into MI6 stuff and female!M stops him, so he tries to scare her but she is not impressed at all, to the point they actually become friends in some way (that is to say, the “I try to slit your throat as a pastime activity” kind of friend…) :D thank you anyway, you two are always delightful! :) –fridatwin

“The diet is going well, then?”

Mycroft froze, pasty poised in front of his lips.

Why. Why, God, why.

“Move over,” M instructed, beating him lightly with the tip of her own umbrella as she sat down next to him on the bench. “Are you going to eat that or not?”

Mycroft sighed, lunch lying uneaten on his lap. A pasty had seemed like a delightful idea until this precise moment.

“What was it this time?” he asked, folding his hands over and looking up a little too politely.

M sniffed, taking out her own sandwiches, “Your brother.”

“Ah. What has he done?”

“Baskerville.”

Mycroft closed his eyes, letting out a controlled breath. “Excellent,” he muttered. “Again?”

M’s expression hardened. “What do you mean by ‘again’?” she asked acidly.

Both stared at one another for a very long moment.

“Nothing,” Mycroft said slowly, utterly obnoxiously, and took a victorious bite of his now-tepid pasty.

M sniffed and, from the depths of a deceptively small handbag, retrieved the largest ploughman’s sandwich Mycroft had ever seen.

She smirked at his expression. “Unlike some,  _I_  am not on a diet,” she told him, and took a bite herself.

The pasty was still satisfying, but Mycroft rather wished M was less smug about eating cheese. Mycroft hadn’t eaten cheese in a Very Long Time. He  _missed_  cheese.

“Would you be averse to swapping?” she asked, looking with some distaste at the interior. “It appears to have mayonnaise. God alone knows what possessed him.”

“Him?”

“Erik,” M replied noncommittally, and extended the sandwich.

Mycroft looked at it for a very long moment.

Good  _god_  he missed cheese.

M was waiting. Mycroft just  _knew_  she would mock him. Everybody would mock him. He could see it bloody well coming.

“Thank you,” he said instead, and snagged the sandwich from her hands. In its stead, M was rewarded with a beef pasty, and couldn’t look more satisfied about it.

The pair sat in oddly disjointed silence, and ate, as they did every lunchtime.

Nobody discussed the arrangement, least of all them.


	114. Chapter 114

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love your guys’ writing so much! Can I pretty please request some Holmescest with Sherlock/Q? I don’t think I’ve seen anything for that yet and I just – decided to come to the source of Bondlock dreams, yanno? :3 –anon

Sherlock was a twat. It made absolutely no sense whatsoever for Q to be – in any way – invested in him.

Yet, Sherlock remained compelling. Not merely compelling, in fact, but as addictive as the man’s cocaine; Q found a compass point and couldn’t stop returning, absurd and lethal though it happened to be. Sherlock did not know how to care.

Q was wrong. It took a while to realise.

“Asexual,” Sherlock drawled. “Not socially dysfunctional or unable to love – simply unable to have sex. Problem?”

“No,” Q replied, and had no idea what he was saying at the time.

The bright side was that they would never be arrested for incest.

The dark side was that Q happened to  _love_  sex, and missed it with every part of his being. It wasn’t a problem, per se, but there are only so many times one can imagine having sex with one’s partner before sanity starts to slide a little.

Sherlock sighed, as Q came out of the shower, hair spiked at ludicrous angles and sticking wetly to him. “It bothers you.”

Q sighed. “A little, yes, but not as much as it bothers you,” he replied calmly, “and nowhere near as much as the mere  _concept_  bothers Mycroft.”

“Jealousy,” Sherlock replied, with a triumphant smirk.

“Not all the Holmeses are interested in incest,” Q reminded, with a smile of his own. “Honestly though, it’s okay.”

Sherlock watched him for a moment, eyes sharp. “You’re lying.”

Yes, Q was, but he wasn’t about to admit it.

Sherlock kissed him.

Q didn’t really know how to respond. This was not one of Sherlock’s usual kisses; he was gentle and passionate and sensual, and this was the kiss of a storm. The force of it was breathtaking.

Blood rushed southwards, as anticipated. Sherlock’s hands roamed.

Q pulled back. “Okay, what?” he asked, torn between alarm and frank weariness.

Both stared at one another. Q ignored his raging erection with a stoicism born of a long time’s practise. Sherlock was impassive, because god  _fucking_  damn it, the man was always stoic.

“You want this.”

Q contemplated bashing Sherlock’s head into a wall. “You don’t.”

“You give me what I want, why shouldn’t you…”

“Because while I’d love you to fuck me into the bed, it doesn’t actively upset or repulse me to do so,” Q replied irritably. “We’ve had this conversation, Sherlock, I’m bored of this.”

“Bored of…”

“The conversation, you idiot, not the not-sex bit.”

Sherlock continued to remain impassive. The wall looked welcome.

Q sighed. Water dripped down the back of his neck. Sherlock was very, very still. Q’s erection waned and died with a droop of sadness and the understanding that this was how matters would remain. “I love you,” Q told him simply.

Sherlock nodded, and retreated to the bed, expression becoming unfocused, distantly reaching somewhere Q never would.


	115. Chapter 115

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello you gorgeous lovely amazing wonderful people!!!!! If your still taking prompts, would you please do a bondlock where kid!Q gets horribly sick or is diagnosed with a life threatening condition and his brothers take care of him and are really nice and loving? I love you and your work!!!!!!! – anon

Neither Sherlock nor Mycroft knew what to do, and were entirely unaccustomed to the sensation.

Their youngest brother was curled up in a hospital bed, sweating, shivering. Both the Holmes parents were absent – one dead, one working as ever – and thus, Mycroft and Sherlock were the guardians of the very fragile being in front of them.

“What do we  _do_?” Sherlock asked, a frightened teenager staring at eight-year-old brother.

Mycroft, at twenty, had no idea what to do either. “We look after him.”

Both boys stood, and stared at the bed.

Q shivered in his sleep, face crinkling with pain or unhappiness or  _something_ , and Mycroft moved solely on instinct; he reached out, hushing Q very gently, pushing his hair from his eyes and carefully stroking his head, his temples.

“What are you doing?”

Mycroft didn’t look up, far too concerned with not waking Q up. “He always calmed when mummy did this as a child,” he explained simply. “I assume there is something comforting in the motion. It seemed apt.”

Sherlock couldn’t have looked more frightened if he tried. “But… Mycroft, we’re shit at this.”

“ _Language_.”

Sherlock grimaced, but conceded. “Okay, we’re terrible at this – we can’t let him down, we can’t make him better, we can’t…”

“I’m going to have a quiet word with his doctors in a moment, and we shall see where we go afterwards,” Mycroft explained, making Sherlock snort a little; a ‘quiet word’ was probably not what anybody in the building wanted. Somebody was probably about to get very, very frightened.

Q stilled. Mycroft straightened. “I shall be back momentarily. Look after him.”

“ _Don’t leave me on my own_.”

Mycroft raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Sherlock, you are adult enough to deal with an ill and unconscious child. He will not die simply through your presence, but it would be… prudent, I think, to watch him and ensure he remains calm if he wakes.”

Sherlock gaped. “He could  _wake up_?”

Mycroft didn’t dignify it with any answer, bar an elaborate eye roll and striding out the door.

Q slept. Sherlock stared. Slid slowly into the seat where Mycroft had been, and stared at Q’s head, wondering if he would get it all wrong and make things worse and  _god_  but he was ill, his baby brother was so ill.

Sherlock reached out.

Q stirred. Sherlock froze. Q settled. Sherlock tentatively reached out, and stroked the top of Q’s head.

Q made a contented sound.

Sherlock was still in the precise same position when Mycroft returned, looking after Q in the way one would guard crystal: fragile and precious.


	116. Chapter 116

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i rewatched the last vow recently (and paid far more attention to it) and caught all the amazing tidbits that basically cemented my bondlock headcanons, so i guess i’m asking for a conversation between mycroft and q, in reference to what mycroft said about “the other brother”, and kind of make it a ‘Q & mycroft erased his identity to work in the government as an unknown entity’ type of conversation? anything like that, plot filled as you can make it? please and thank you!!! –anon

Q would always owe Mycroft, for everything he had done.

In short: Q would have been in prison, were it not for his irritating and obnoxious and powerful and brilliant big brother. Q had been caught doing many things he definitely shouldn’t have been and – rather than locking him for indefinite periods – Mycroft had erased his brother from the face of the earth and got him a job in MI6.

Really, Q landed on his feet in spectacular style. He hadn’t deserved it. Mycroft gave it to him anyway, to protect him.

“… and so, I’m rather hoping you will find a way to import him back onto home territory,” Mycroft told Q calmly. “I doubt it’ll require erasing his existence entirely, but certainly a low profile would be ideal.”

“Sherlock can’t keep a low profile, he doesn’t know how,” Q returned, with more truth than humour. “And it’s not like you can do another vanishing act anyway. Sherlock would give himself away in a heartbeat if he wanted to seem clever or show credentials, and I don’t especially want to do that much work if…”

“… America?”

Q raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Sherlock in the perpetual company of  _Americans_  is a better idea,” he said, with dripping sarcasm. “Again – Mycroft, he is not me. I don’t know if we  _can_  keep him even in hiding, the only way he did after the Moriarty incident was being abroad in non-English-speaking countries.”

Mycroft looked at Q, almost beseeching. “No,” Q said shortly. “Last time, he got tortured by a terrorist cell, let’s avoid that this time, yes?”

“He will definitely die if he stays.”

Q rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’ve gathered that much. Fine – I’ll get him shipped back to the UK. It would have to be the type of catastrophe that would ensure his return…”

“… which limits matters somewhat,” Mycroft completed. “I… Q?”

Q was no longer listening. He had taken on the distant quality Mycroft recognised: thought, an idea that he was examining, analysing the efficacy.

“I have an idea.”

-

Mycroft had to admit: it was brilliant.

Q didn’t show up to Sherlock’s exile onto the plane. He had other things to do, other things to organise, and Mycroft hoped rather fervently that he would get it right.

The plane took off. This was planned.

_Did you miss me?_

It was extraordinary. Mycroft couldn’t believe Q had pulled it off; every screen in the country, everything connected to the internet or a television station or could be accessed remotely in any form was playing the same clip.

His face. A manipulated voice.

It was  _perfect_.

Mycroft picked up the phone, and called Sherlock.

Their brother was coming home.


	117. Chapter 117

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a hopelessly childish argue between the holmes boys, in 221B with John, James and Greg all there and face palming pretty pretty pleaseeeee??? (handing you internet pansies lovely human you two) – embracethebond

John liked Bond. A very normal chap, overall, which was a little surprising given the stories John had heard; he surmised that Bond was an exceptionally good actor, and left it at that. It wouldn’t be too surprising, the man lied for a living.

“… and you  _always_  used to leave fingers in the fridge…”

The Holmes brothers were bickering about what to do for their mother’s birthday. The entire affair had degenerated into bitching and random insults, all three of them de-aging about twenty years apiece.

“… I elected to turn up in person for her last birthday…”

Perfect unison: “ _Fuck off, Mycroft_.”

Greg sighed slightly, making John snort a bit. Bond just shook his head very slightly. “I’m taking it they’re always like this?” he asked lightly; in response, Greg and John laughed in perfect unison.

“Like nothing you could believe,” John told him. “Last time, things got thrown, I think Mycroft had to leave because of a call though…”

“… he did, it was my call, and he was grumpy all damn day…”

“… and so they were interrupted,” John completed, hoping very hard that nobody broke anything. Q was a lethal little bugger when he wanted to be. “But this could last for hours, depends on how stubborn they’re feeling.”

Bond rolled his eyes. “Q does have a tendency.”

“It’s a Holmes trait,” Greg supplemented, as his partner made some wry comment he didn’t quite hear properly that made Sherlock snarl viciously.

John glanced up at the snarl, vaguely curious. “This level of shouting is fairly unusual, usually Sherlock passive-aggressively plays the violin at them…”

“ _I heard that_.”

John winced. Bond and Greg shot him twin looks of sympathy. “This is your first time with all three, isn’t it?” Greg confirmed; Bond nodded, as Q unleashed a cascade of imaginative swear words. Greg and Bond blinked. “That’s a little more graphic than usual,” Greg conceded.

“Yes, Q swears imaginatively and frequently,” Bond commented drily; from next door, he heard an echo of Sherlock’s previous statement. Bond rolled his eyes. Q would doubtless tell him off later. “Sorry,” he called next door.

“See? Bond is  _not_  good for you,” Mycroft hissed, just loud enough to be audible.

Greg held up a hand to stop Bond stalking in. “I really wouldn’t, he’s baiting to make Q go on the defensive, he doesn’t mean it.”

“Gregory, that is enough.”

“… and that makes a full house,” John commented, and took an almost desperate slug of tea. “God I need a drink. Pub?”

“Oh please yes,” Greg nodded eagerly. “James?”

Bond hesitated.

“ _And I’m fucked if the pair of you are going to fucking criticize me…_ ”

“Yep,” he said quickly, and followed them out the back door, leaving the brothers to kill each other in peace.


	118. Chapter 118

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a Lex and Jen special, just for Valentine's Day/Pride 2014.

“Sherlock, they are outside the door. Literally, outside the door.”

Sherlock glanced towards the window, hearing the noises; they were further down the street, but still within spitting distance, confetti and loud music audible through the torrential rain. “Being outside the door does not compel me to join them,” he stated simply, not looking at John.

When he did, he gaped in surprise. “John, what’re you…?”

“Army vets,” John shrugged; he was dressed nicely, coat over the top, umbrella in hand. “I’m going. Please come, Sherlock. I know it’s shit weather, but that’s not the point, really – in support, even if you don’t want to be around me. You can come watch, if you like.”

From his vantage point on the armchair, Sherlock shook his head slightly. “Enjoy. I suppose I shall see you in several hours’ time, once the tubes are no longer throttled with human beings and you can wend your way back,” he said primly, schooling himself to only smile very slightly when John leant in to kiss him.

The door clicked behind him, and John let out a small sigh. He had honestly hoped Sherlock would come, but then, he wasn’t too surprised.

The rest of John’s party were already in place, greeting John with loud cheers and a turtle-like formation of umbrellas. “UKIP will have a field day, the gays made it rain again,” a younger man said with a laugh. “Where’s yours, I thought he was coming…?”

“Not his scene,” John shrugged, introduced and introducing himself to people he didn’t recognise, one female officer hand in hand with a gorgeous woman in a plunging neckline dress and the widest smile John had ever seen.

Things started moving, and John cheered along with the rest. The atmosphere was absurdly contagious, moving down Baker Street, people joining as they went  _thought I’d missed it, tubes are hell_ and John was hug-attacked by people he half-recognised.

Until, that was, the moment a cold hand slid into his own.

Sherlock was standing tall and proud in his coat, purple shirt, and a gorgeous purple scarf.

John blinked.

“This is important to you, yes?” Sherlock asked simply, not waiting for a response. “Ergo, I am attending. Not to mention that I am certain we shall come across my youngest sibling; he has been coming ever since he was a child – I refused, naturally, but Mycroft agreed to accompany him.”

A small smirk. “Sorry, Mycroft at Pride?!” he asked, unable to picture the man in anything other than a suit. “Can’t see it, myself.”

Sherlock’s smile was small, understated. “As I understand it, they originally only came to watch –  they were in the crowd by the barriers, Mycroft had balanced Q on his shoulders. Apparently, Q was plucked up onto a bus by a man in a cocktail dress, showered in confetti, and had the absolute time of his life. If I recall, Q was ten at the time. Mycroft naturally contacted everybody under the sun to assure his safety, and collected him at the end.”

John had to say, the image was one of the more endearing things he could imagine. “Thank you,” he said instead, wondering – as he held onto Sherlock’s hand with only a touch of trepidation – if Sherlock knew that purple was an asexual-associated colour, and if it had been deliberate.

Either way: Sherlock looked quietly terrified for one of the very few times John had ever seen, and almost every time he had seen that fear, it had something to do with John. “I love you,” Sherlock said, with a type of semi-defiance, and held on a fraction tighter.

The next hour or so passed with Sherlock gaining tangible confidence, somehow unconcerned about the infinitude of cameras that passed them by; it was unsurprising, of course, and so Sherlock bit back the worry as the clouds cleared, and the sun appeared for a while.

“Thank god, my feet are drenched,” John muttered, making Sherlock smile brighter than any sunlight.

Which was, of course, the point that Sherlock was almost completely knocked off his feet by a flying human being.

“You  _came_ ,” Q said excitably, looking Sherlock over with half-disbelief, dressed almost normally barring the glitter covering every exposed inch of skin. “You  _never_  come, I thought… and  _John_ , fantastic, I knew you’d be around here so I thought I’d come hi, but I didn’t think you’d be here! How are you doing?!”

John had literally never seen Q quite so  _open_. It was a little like he had been allowed to breathe for the first time, the young man flying with sheer energy and tangible joy, hugging John with confidence before abruptly darting back to the side of somebody Sherlock hadn’t noticed until that moment.

“Shit,” John said, almost inaudibly.

Neither of them had ever seen Bond in civvies. The man was in  _jeans_ , for the love of god. “Afternoon,” he told them, extending a hand, shaking John and Sherlock’s in turn. “Good to see you both here.”

Sherlock glanced him up and down with tangible disbelief, and John was even less subtle. “Didn’t expect you to turn up.”

Bond grinned, looked at Q with such unapologetic affection it was almost wrenching, and shrugged in a way that more than amply explained everything. “I gather you’ve done this for years,” John asked Q, while Bond and Sherlock opened a subtler dialogue.

Q nodded enthusiastically, looking around him, glasses smeared with rain. “Mycroft took me… Sherlock never marched, he used to say it was just stupid… he supported, though.” John knew his confusion was showing; Q raised an eyebrow, and continued: “I saw him in the crowds, when I was in the parade – he was in a hoodie so nobody could recognise him, but I know it was him. He admitted it when he was drunk one Christmas. Don’t tell him I told you.”

“Never,” John promised, watching his partner out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock meeting his gaze with distant curiosity. He twitched a smile when John coaxed one out of him, and continued to talk to Bond.

From that stage, Bond and Q stayed with them. Q was a little bit like a child on cocaine, darting around, very happily getting his face painted with luminescent pink stuff by a passing pair of men in gorgeous floor-length dresses, the pink accidently transferring onto Bond when Q kissed him happily.

By the time they reached Trafalgar Square, the crowds were enormous, cameras everywhere, Q crowing and Bond holding on him with the expression of a benevolent parent, Sherlock’s grip so tight John knew it would bruise, kissing John abruptly with the power to take his breath away quite completely.

-

In the crowd, as the rain drizzled overhead, a solitary man stood watching; Q noticed him, nodded with subtler gratitude, Sherlock and John kissing behind him.

Mycroft turned, his umbrella sheltering him from the worst of the rain, each segment coloured a different shade of the rainbow.


	119. Chapter 119

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OH GOD! yeees Bondlock! Hamish (18) arrived home high, really really high. Sherlock is devastated and John is furious. John talks to Myc and Q to help Hamish go to rehab, just like they helped Sherlock in the past. Thanks you for your amazing writing – anon

“This is my fault,”

John rolled his eyes, torn between slapping his husband and hugging him. “It’s not, I promise you…”

“I knew that it was a foolish idea to use my genetics - I have a predisposition to addiction, something that has clearly been passed…” John went for the hugging option, one of the few things to effectively shut Sherlock up. Mostly because he tended to be so alarmed he had no suitable responses.

“This is no one’s fault,” John assured him, as Sherlock begrudgingly allowed the contact. “But now we know, we can do something about it.”

“I’m going to kill him.”

“No, you’re not,” John admonished. “Get a grip, Sherlock, he needs our help and he needs to get clean. We’re take him straight to rehab, Mycroft can lend us the money, I’m sure.”

Abruptly, Sherlock smiled, and it was  _not_  a nice smile. “Yes. I should get in touch with my dear brother.”

John had a vague feeling that a drug dealer was about to disappear completely and never be found. Given Sherlock’s palpable distress, and his son’s state, John had very few compunctions.

Mycroft picked up the phone within two rings. “Good god, Sherlock, it’s three in the morning.”

“Hamish needs to go to rehab, and I need you to track down whoever dealt him coke.”

There was silence for three seconds precisely. “Consider it dealt with. I’m assuming he is coming down somewhere?”

“His bedroom.”

“A team will be with you within the next half hour. I’m certain Doctor Watson can deal with him until that stage. I will also, naturally, set the relevant people onto finding whomsoever is responsible.”

Sherlock had very rarely looked so fragile. “Thank you.”

“Naturally,” Mycroft replied, and hung up.

There was a long moment of silence. Sherlock stared at his hands. John tried hard not to literally shake with anger.

“… I keep hoping he’ll actually call me John, one day,” John muttered eventually.

The tension snapped. Sherlock snorted, John smiled, the tension dribbling away slightly. “I somehow doubt it,” Sherlock smiled, looking at his husband, a father to his child, somebody who would be able to heal the hurts.

“I’ll go check on him,” John told him gently, and kissed him very lightly. “Go make some tea.”

Sherlock nodded, spirited himself into the kitchen.

John took a deep breath. Another.

Went to deal with his son.


	120. Chapter 120

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and your Bondlock are AWESOME! I have read fics where Mycroft always looks after baby Q. What if only for one time, Sherlock has to take over Q, because Mycroft is mourning his broken relationship. Baby Q then sees that Sherlock actually cares about him. Thank you for the feels and your stories! – anon

There was a grand tradition in the Holmes house of Sherlock reading all his brother’s letters. Q didn’t get any letters - he was too small and too boring. But Mycroft got GREAT letters. Bank statements, loooooveeeee letters, all sorts. Nothing was private to Sherlock Holmes.

…sorry to inform you, he died earlier this morning from the impact…

Well that would explain Mycroft’s weird mood, Sherlock mused. Mycroft had opened the letter of breakfast, and had stood up in silence and left without finishing his Special K. Very odd. Turned out his boyfriend was dead.

Mycroft didn’t come back for a very long while.

Mummy and Daddy were looking after him, being very nice to him, trying to make him eat things (haha) and get out of bed and shower, which was a bit weird because Mycroft had always been disgustingly tidy and clean and picked on Sherlock when he was grubby.

Which left Sherlock with Q.

Q was very young, and didn’t trust Sherlock very much. It was fair, really. Sherlock had very nearly killed the boy more than once. Not through malice, to be fair, but through silly things like Q walking into the path of a chemical explosion Sherlock definitely definitely had been controlling and couldn’t possibly have hurt Q in the slightest. Totally.

Really, Sherlock had no idea how he had ever been allowed even vaguely close to Q. Sherlock knew full well he was irresponsible and probably dangerous and definitely not very good for Q. He couldn’t look after people. He could barely look after himself.

But – mummy and daddy and Mycroft were busy, so Sherlock had to look after him better.

“… I have a dead field mouse I was dissecting?”

Q looked like he wanted to cry. Sherlock changed tack.

“We can steal some of Mycroft’s CDs?”

A little more interest. Sherlock looked a touch smug. Q started humming Disney songs, and Sherlock quickly realised this was going to be the success he’d hoped for. Sherlock was hoping for Vivaldi. At the worst, Pink Floyd. Never, ever Disney.

“Film?”

Q blinked. Sherlock let out a small, aggrieved noise.

“What do you want?”

“Myc,” Q replied honestly, and looked rather tearful.

Sherlock tempered the annoyance and obvious jealousy with difficulty. “Film it is,” he said instead, very drily, and scooped Q into his arms like Mycroft did.

(It was really hard. Mycroft was clearly stronger than he looked. Or Q had got very heavy very quickly).

Child installed, ice cream served (ish), Q covered in sugary stickiness and delightedly snuggling Sherlock’s shirt, destroying it utterly, and Sherlock falling asleep with his baby brother lying on top of him because oh god small children were hard work and he would never underestimate Mycroft again.

“My ‘lock,” Q said with contented possessiveness, and as the credits rolled, fell asleep himself.

Mycroft found them two hours later.

It was the first time he’d smiled since hearing the news.


	121. Chapter 121

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I wonder if I could trouble you with a prompt? I’d love something where Q saves Sherlock and/or Mycroft’s life. I want Q to be BAMF and Sherlock and Mycroft to be utterly gobsmacked :-) thank you so so much! – anon

“Well well well, two brothers, both alike in dignity…”

Sherlock strained against the bonds holding him to the chair, they had been expertly tied - nothing short of breaking his own arm would get him out. Then there was the further irritation of the back of Mycroft’s chair against his own.

Mycroft was naturally silent, as was his wont. Not gagged, nobody would have the impudence to gag somebody who was never likely to be verbally difficult – that was generally reserved for Sherlock – but all the same, silent, and waiting, as the man aborted Shakespeare.

Sherlock  _was_  gagged, as became very evident the more their captor spoke; he was making obscene noises behind his gag and apparently forgetting that he would not be even vaguely audible.

The man finished monologuing. “And how may I help?” Mycroft asked, with just the slightest dash of insubordination.

That dash was, it seemed, more than enough. Sherlock was wrenched to one side, several kicks to the stomach, a stamp on his hand which was more than ample to break the wrist; the man was still gagged and now extremely vocal, and all of it was designed to bait Mycroft who, regrettably, was rather easily baited when it came to Sherlock.

Not baited enough to release sensitive information, but more than ample to get him angry and upset in the extreme. “If you would  _kindly_  stop beating my sibling…”

A gun against Sherlock’s head.

Mycroft was not breathing. He was dimly aware of this. The world had narrowed to the gun and to Sherlock, the blood seeping out of his nose and the strange choking behind the gag, the evident pain and the palpable reality of Sherlock’s imminent death.

There were only a handful of situations in Mycroft’s memory that stuck out as one’s he had no control over nor any way of fixing. Luck, or even chance, were things Mycroft had minimal interest in, and never applied.

Sherlock was going to die. Mycroft could not alter that circumstance.

Two gunshots, sharp but muted.

Sherlock was covered in blood, liberally covered, every inch of him, Mycroft’s breath coming too-fast in his throat as he observed  _good god man, use your intelligence_  and realised that Sherlock was quite distinctly not dead.

“One of these days, you two are going to wind up in trouble that even I can’t get you out of.”

Q. Only his bloody youngest brother, the one he perpetually underestimated, with a Glock. “You’re…”

“Yes, I am,” Q interjected, before Mycroft could finish. “Well noticed. Sherlock, stop shrieking, you’re giving me a headache and you don’t have the oxygen to justify this; medical are on their way. Kindly shut up.”

Sherlock did as he was told, allowing Q to duly ungag him. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“No shit. I just saved your life, however, so gratitude would be splendid.”

Q continued, seeming spectacularly, infuriatingly unfazed by absolutely anything in the situation.

“… thank you,” Mycroft managed.

Q smiled, nodded. “You’re welcome,” he replied politely, “now, if you’ll excuse me…”

Sherlock and Mycroft could only watch as Q spoke quickly into his headpiece, ordering evac, organising half the secret service by the bloody sounds of it, and all for the sake of his ridiculous eldest siblings.


	122. Chapter 122

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 00Q AU Meeting prompt: Before Q started working for MI6, he goes over to his brother Sherlock’s flat to meet his new roommate, John. John happens to have a friend over, Bond, and Q and Bond are really into each other. And maybe some NSFW, if you feel like it. – anon

“Who’s this?”

“I live here, Sherlock, I’m allowed to invite people over,” John told him with simple curtness. “James, this is my flatmate Sherlock. He’s an arse.”

“Charmed,” Sherlock returned, with a terrifyingly saccharine smile.

Q wasn’t really watching the bickering. There was always bickering, when Sherlock was in a room. Mycroft, John, Lestrade, passers-by, police; always bickering. Always.

No, the point of interest was the drop-dead-gorgeous man whom John had introduced as James, and who was looking Q up and down with the eyes of a man who’d been waiting for Q all his life.

(Q hadn’t had sex for three and a half months. His reaction to the man was perhaps a little melodramatic).

“Bond. James Bond.”

At which stage Q promptly forgot what words were, and barely managed to stammer out the  _single sodding letter_  that constituted his name.

“You’re hopeless,” Sherlock commented disparagingly, and very nearly earned himself a punch in the nose for his troubles; Bond and Q were busy making sickening eyes at one another, but John knew full well that Sherlock was just being a twat because he could. “… he…”

“Keep talking, and I’ll make your life hell,” John hissed. Sherlock shut up, but pouted a bit.

Bond and Q seemed to have started talking. After his shaky start, the overconfident cockiness had re-emerged, his groin was being less insistent, and conversation was genuinely very enjoyable.

“… ahem?”

“ _Sherlock_.”

“Q, John. John, my baby brother. Given that you so rudely declined to introduce yourself…”

John was going to spit in his tea. Definitely. “It’s good to meet you,” John nodded, while Q looked briefly mortified before reaching out to shake John’s hand. “James has that effect on people.”

Bond and Q laughed, easily and somehow familiarly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I’ll go make tea,” John said quickly, to avoid causing Sherlock physical injury; Q looked back to him with a wide-eyed, manic intensity that made John feel briefly unwell. “I’m guessing you’d like tea?”

A slow, creepy nod.

(At least weirdness ran in the family).

“Sherlock, come with me.”

“I…”

“ _Now_.”

Sherlock – bizarrely – did as he was told, John following, leaving the apparently already rather besotted pair next door to talk without risk of commentary or Sherlock.


	123. Chapter 123

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could you possibly write Bondlock 00Q where Sherlock and Mycroft keep threatening to reveal Q’s real name to Bond but then at some Holmes family thing, Mummy Holmes just casually calls him by his given name, much to all four men’s shock. (+ Bond’s reaction to Q’s name if you could would be awesome. ) Thank you very much! – anon

“So help me, I’ll…”

Q hissed, pounced, and all but knocked Sherlock over; it was unacceptable, everybody  _knew_  it was unacceptable, to call Q by his birth name. Especially in front of Bond. It was  _not allowed to happen_ , and so Q threw himself at Sherlock and rugby tackled him to the ground.

A moment of wrestling, and Sherlock conceded defeat. Trained street fighter though he was, Q had been trained by MI6, and much to Sherlock’s chagrin he was formidable in any fight.

Sherlock begrudgingly apologised. Q released him.

“Mycroft’s just as bad,” Sherlock whined, rubbing his wrists with a dash of notable melodrama. “You know that…”

“It doesn’t excuse anything,” Q cut in primly, and straightened, glancing briefly at Bond. “It isn’t my name any more. It is gone.”

Bond nodded. “I get that. I respect your decision,” he told Q with remarkable simplicity; Sherlock made a mildly nauseated voice, and life trickled on.

-

Christmas. “Forced interaction,” Q grumbled, as he rang the doorbell. “Forced familial relations. We never do this. We never ever do this, but ever since last year, Sherlock drugging everyone and me the only one absent I’ve  _promised_  and I bloody hate this, I don’t know  _why_  this has abruptly become a tradition…”

The door opened, and Q smiled – Bond found the smile very endearing, given that though he may try valiantly to deny it, Q absolutely adored his parents.

His mother immediately bundled him into a hug. Q made small squeaking noises, but allowed it. When Q finally extricated himself, she turned to Bond and gave him a smaller hug of his own; she smelt of baking and surprisingly lovely perfume. “Hello, you must be James.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” he nodded in reply, Q watching with a dash of anticipation, hoping his mother liked his boyfriend. Accepted him.

She stood back, and invited them both into the house.

In the living room, Sherlock and Mycroft had a drink each, and were studiously ignoring one another. Mary and John were talking quietly, ignoring the Holmes brothers ignoring one another and pointedly ignoring Q’s entrance.

“Hello Q,” Mary smiled, “and James, I didn’t think you were coming?”

“He took some convincing,” Q smirked. “Mummy, whereabouts have you put the drinks?”

“They’re in the kitchen,” the Holmes matriarch replied, and then called Q something nobody had heard in years.

Silence. Absolute, ridiculous silence. Absurd silence. Bizarre and awkward and shocked silence.

“… that’s your name?” Bond asked, slowly.

Q closed his eyes. “Fuck.”

“Ha,” Sherlock crowed. Mycroft whacked him in the stomach. Sherlock snarled. Q rolled his eyes, and Mummy Holmes just looked a little bit horrified.

Bond tried not to smirk. “I can see why…”

“It’s a beautiful name,” Mummy Holmes interjected sharply. “We named him for a reason.”

Q winced. “Yep, and I’ve outgrown it. Call me Q, mummy, please? I implore you.”

“Of course, darling. I’m so sorry.”

Bond blinked. Sherlock was still trying very hard not to smirk, while Mycroft glared warningly.

Unnoticed, John’s jaw had dropped. Mary exchanged a brief glance with Bond before restraining her own smirk. “Well. This has been suitably uncomfortable,” Q commented languidly. “Alrighty then. Alcohol. Definitely need alcohol.”

Q slid out to find practically anything with alcohol. Wasn’t fussy as to what. Anything, as long as he could slide through the day with minimal fuss and minimal humiliation; Sherlock looked ready to cause as much chaos as physically possible. Bastard.

All the remaining people in the room exchanged glances, and promptly collapsed with laughter.


	124. Chapter 124

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bondlock prompt! After the Fall, John manages to get himself back to war (doesn’t matter if it’s Afghanistan again or some other place) but ends up going MIA. Holmes boys are pretty much freaking out (tho only secretly). A few months later, James, on a mission, gets ambushed and for a little while everyone, but especially Q, is horribly scared, until a familiar voice(at least to Q) picks up the mic and says “I got him” – anon

John Watson had been missing for seven months, two weeks, and three days. He was officially MIA, partly because somebody in higher power refused to declare him officially deceased.

John was very much on Q’s mind. Partly because Sherlock had got in touch that morning, and Q had lied to him about John and felt very guilty about it all. Partly because Bond was in Afghanistan on a very difficult mission, very geographically near to the last recording sighting of John Watson.

Then, of course, Bond got ambushed. In a screeching of bullets and swearing from Bond’s end, then a retaliatory hail of bullets – Q was somewhat confused, given that the noises indicated at least three different types of weaponry being used by various parties – and everybody in MI6 held their breaths for a very long moment as they waited for any sound or anything further, any report  _Bond, Bond check in, what’s going on?_  and there was no response.

A thump. Bond’s vitals monitor trickled to an abrupt stop.

“Shit,” Q breathed. “Bond.  _Bond_. Fucking  _answer me_  you  _fuck_ , what’s going on over there?”

Q never swore. MI6 all raised various eyebrows. Q ignored them.

Silence. Q felt his heart, stomach, throat dropping with ever increasing weight and depth, plummeting. “Bond? Double-oh seven?”

Rustling, distortion. Q swallowed; the mic was still running, it was still possible, the vitals monitors were notoriously liable to damage and destruction, he was working on it but still, and the mic would survive most things which meant he  _had to be_  alright. He had to be.

“ _I’ve got him. Over._ ”

Q blinked.

“ _Anybody receiving? Over._ ”

“You don’t need to ‘over’ every one,” Q said on reflex, before wincing; not good, if he was wrong this was potentially dangerous to Bond. “Who am I addressing?”

“ _Q?_ ”

“Yes. Name?”

“ _Captain John Watson_.”

Q let out an abrupt, sharp gasp. Q-branch all looked very alarmed, a bit unsurprisingly. They looked to Q, to the main monitor screen, back to Q. Q tried to think, and patched Mycroft into the conversation without hesitation, muted the microphone quickly to snap at Mycroft to listen, before returning to John.

“John. As in…”

“ _Sherlock’s flatmate, Q, yes. I’ve been in Afghanistan working with an insurgent cell of various nationalities, we intercepted the attack on Bond – he’s fine, by the way. To confirm: John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, ex-flatmate to the deceased Sherlock Holmes who was an arse who played the violin and spent his last few minutes on earth lying to me, you’re Q, his younger brother and Mycroft is probably listening in by now, so hello Mycroft_.”

“Hello, John.”

“Voice analysis confirmed,” R murmured from the side; Q nodded slowly, wondering vaguely whether he was in shock or not. Probably close, but it was a damn close thing.

Q let out a small breath. “Okay. John, you have a lot of explaining to. We’re sending out a dispatch team you pick you up.”

“ _No, you’re not._ ”

“That’s an order,” Q returned, with a level of iron that few had heard him use before. “Do not make me forcibly extract you, and your compatriots. Is that completely clear?”

John was quiet for a moment. “ _We can use Bond as a hostage, if required_.”

Q made the call, and hoped to everything holy and not that John was still – at his core – a good person. “I have to be aware of the variable risks. We will pick you up imminently.”

Everybody held their breath. Mycroft included, although he would never admit to it.

“ _Received.”_


	125. Chapter 125

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love your Bondlock crossover! I became so addicted. Kidlock! What if Sherlock is experimenting with Myc’s goldfish and by accident he kills it. He panics and tells Q about it, Q spends his savings and buy a new goldfish. Myc notices his fish is now smaller, and tells nothing. Thank you for your writing and time! – anon

The chemicals shouldn’t have been toxic. Sherlock was so very certain that they wouldn’t be toxic that when the goldfish was found floating upside-down, quite definitely dead, he truly didn’t know what to do with himself.

Step one: remove goldfish.

Step two: enter Q’s room with a dead goldfish in a plastic bag.

Step three: panic. Just panic.

Step four: Q deals with everything, and Sherlock flushes goldfish down the toiler

Unexpected step five: goldfish refuses to be flushed. Panic again.

Step six: Q somehow procures a goldfish, and the predecessor disappears from the toilet. Thank every god.

“You owe me,” Q told Sherlock sternly, eight years old and scarily intelligent about everything Sherlock was not. Sherlock could do chemistry (dead fish notwithstanding) but Q understand how to fix disasters which really, Sherlock found extraordinary.

Sherlock blinked. “How did you…”

“I bought a goldfish, I want my savings back.”

Q was amazingly stubborn, amazingly matter-of-fact for a small child. A  _very_  small child.

Sherlock blamed teenage hormones, both for the cock-up with the goldfish and the way he had panicked.

Definitely teenage hormones.

-

When Mycroft returned a few days later – meeting in London, he’d been busy for the previous week – he could tell there was something strange.

Archimedes was definitely no longer Archimedes.

There was a very large part of Mycroft that couldn’t help but be curious – but it was just like his brothers to have managed to a) do  _something_  – god alone knew what – to Archimedes, and b) fix it that efficiently.

In quiet, Sherlock slipped Q money. Mycroft nodded to himself; it all made sense.

He would never say a word, and a smaller version of Archimedes became Archimedes, and all was right with the world.

Sherlock and Q couldn’t help but be delighted at their outstanding success.


	126. Chapter 126

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey could you fill this prompt for me?? Sherlock, Q and Mycroft’s parents have just been killed in a car accident or something and Sherlock is 11, Q is 6 and Mycroft is 18. Basically could you write me a really fluff filled story of Mycroft being the best big brother (who can deal with grief and mourning better than his brothers) and comforting Sherlock who becomes very detached and silent whilst Q becomes clingy and emotional because he doesn’t want anyone else to leave him ? Thank you! – anon

Sherlock hadn’t spoken in about a fortnight and counting; Mycroft was just trying to cope as best he could, while Q refused to leave his side and wept intermittently, like the child he was.

“Sherlock?”

As expected, Sherlock didn’t respond. Mycroft was starting to push a little, trying to coax words out; it was getting dangerous, the level of elective mutism Sherlock was engaging in. “Why won’t you talk any more?”

Q’s eyes were wide, as he clung onto Mycroft, his own little shadow.

“Sherlock, can you please acknowledge me?” Mycroft asked patiently. “Just tell me you’re alright?”

Sherlock stared into Mycroft’s eyes defiantly, and refused to say a word.

Q slid around, and attached himself to Sherlock’s knees, beginning to weep again in earnest.

Mycroft was finding it very difficult, it had to be said; he was better at this than his younger siblings, but he missed his parents with every fibre of his being and had managed to wrangle being sole caregiver which, amongst other things, was a hell of a lot of work in terms of time, management, and he had never appreciated his parents nearly enough.

It was hard to manage his own grief, and that of his utterly wrecked younger siblings.

“Please, Sherlock,” Mycroft continued, persevering in spite of most odds. “I’m getting worried about you – mummy and daddy wouldn’t want you to…”

“Go away.”

It was a start, Mycroft considered, sighing slightly. “Good, that’s alright,” Mycroft conceded, “but I need help with dinner, and it’ll be very tricky if you’re not going to talk to me.”

“ _Go away_ ,” Sherlock repeated, his voice raspy from disuse, pushing away a bewildered and devastated Q.

Mycroft missed his parents so acutely it ripped through him like an earthquake.

“Please, Sherlock,” he asked again, aware that he was sounding just a little bit tired, and that Sherlock would pick up on it instantly. “I need your assistance, and I need you to speak. If not, I am going to have to consider therapy and where we go from here.”

Sherlock let out an incredible, raw  _hiss_  of sheer anger. Meanwhile, Q turned from Sherlock and pounced on Mycroft instead with a quiet wail, forcing Mycroft to pick him up and cradle him carefully on his hip.

Children were  _heavy_ ; Mycroft had never had so much exercise, not to mention he was losing weight at the rate of knots. He was trying so hard not to reach the end of his tether that he was losing what on earth any of it meant in the first place; he was exhausted, Sherlock was hostile, Q was very hard word, and Jesus  _Christ_  he was losing his mind.

“Sherlock, I love you, and I’m trying to help.”

For a moment, Mycroft awaited the suitably hostile response; he was utterly shocked at Sherlock’s quiet admission: “I know. I can’t.”

Mycroft gently hushed Q, settling down on the floor opposite Sherlock, Q buried in his shoulder and gradually calming as Mycroft rocked him slowly. “Can’t what, ‘lock?”

“I miss them,” he whispered.

The force of it hit Mycroft head-on, and he reached out for Sherlock; the boy crawled forward, and curled into Mycroft as Q was, valiantly trying to hide the fact that he was crying – for the first time – in front of anybody else. He had been refusing, desperately being a grown-up.

“It’ll be okay,” Mycroft promised his brothers, holding them close. “I promise, it’ll be alright.”


	127. Chapter 127

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I saw that you said there was a lot of fluff lately.. well I’m here to bring the angst. I have been thinking about having an Endless Love type.. where James is so fixated on Q that it becomes obsessive, Q loves him and doesn’t see it but his family does. (sher/myc). They do everything to get Q away from him. Causing James to flip out and almost kill them both. finally they get Q away and James is I guess put into treatment.. angsty enough? LOL.. – anon

Q had expected the normal kidnapping, the talks, the threats, but this was beyond the pale.

“You are being ridiculous,” Q told them, ignoring the reprimanding look from both of his siblings. “He just loves me. Like a normal person, not like us, like a genuinely decent man who loves another human being. Not something you are used to, but hey.”

“The man is pathologically obsessive,” Sherlock said primly. “His behaviour is becoming actively concerning; you have to cut ties, before this becomes lethal.”

“We have approximately ten minutes remaining, he has moved faster than anticipated,” Mycroft informed them, phone still against his ear. “Sherlock, continue, be efficient.”

“Q, he is going to harm you. The best you can hope for is literal imprisonment - his behaviour is indicative of…”

“Of what?” Q asked, raising an eyebrow. “Of love? Affection?”

“Of obsession, I’ve seen it before and we will not allow him to…

"Not allow?” Q asked, rounding on his siblings. “You will ‘not allow’ be to see him? How, pray tell, are you going to stop me?”

“Sherlock….”

Sherlock waved at him helplessly. Mycroft sighed. “Q, we are attempting to help you, as your siblings. He is dangerous. He…”

The door slammed open. Mycroft sighed.

“Your timing is impeccable as ever,” Q muttered. “Sherlock, Mycroft? It’s not been a pleasure, try harder next time.”

“Q…”

Bond had a gun, and Q was wondering what precisely his life had just become. “You will never touch Q without his permission again,” Bond hissed.

Sherlock, of course, had no interest in being tactful. “You’re not doing much better.”

“He’s my partner.”

“He’s my brother,” Sherlock returned cockily.

The gun clicked. “Bond, calm down.”

“James, calm down.”

“You abducted my partner  _against his will_. Correct, Q?”

Q blinked. “Well… yes…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Helpful.”

“I don’t know what to say! James, put the gun away, you’re being…”

There was not a gunshot. Instead, there was a very loud buzzing, and Bond collapsed; the gun slid from his fingers and skittered across the floor, mercifully not deciding to go off.

“ _Mycroft you cannot taser everybody who argues with you!”_

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “I respectfully disagree – and Bond will be grateful, once he has been washed clear of his own urine. Tasers are so  _messy_.”

It had to be one of Q’s worst days ever.


	128. Chapter 128

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Benedict Cumberbatch is engaged. What’s the reaction of all of Q Branch who are all die hard fans of Sherlock? – anon

Half of Q-branch, male and female, were weeping.

Q didn’t really understand it. He loved  _Sherlock_  as much as the rest of them – plus a sideways obsession with  _Elementary_  – and definitely considered Benedict Cumberbatch fairly attractive when in character. Not the most aesthetically appealing he could think of, but certainly worth noting.

Certainly, he had not anticipated the histrionic response of his minions. “And you’re all concerned because he’s engaged…?” Q asked, R looking a little bit tense. Not quite weeping – because R never wept, she had strict personal rules concerning weeping in the office – but she was definitely a little affected.

“Yes.”

That was all she would say. Q nodded, pretended he understood.

They remained in some silence. “… why the devastation?”

“I’m never going to marry him,” she sighed. “That’s all, really. Ever since Third Star…”

“…  _we do not mention that film in the office_ …

“… I haven’t stopped, really, I just became something of a fan girl.”

(Third Star was forbidden. It had broken too many hearts and caused too many tears, and it was all Charlie’s fault. Bastard. Q had him placed on 006-watch for a fortnight, and the stress had very nearly killed him.)

Q sighed, moved to his central computer, decided to start working amidst the sniffles.

Which would have been, had his phone not rang at that precise moment.

“… have you heard?”

Q blinked. “What about?”

James Bond, womaniser and arsehole and boyfriend of the long-suffering Quartermaster, sounded almost tearful. Almost. “About the engagement.”

A long moment of silence. “You’re kidding me.”

“Sophie Hunter is  _beautiful_.”

Q was rendered speechless. Truly and honestly speechless.

“Q? Are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here and I’m confused and very slightly pissed off,” Q replied, all in one sentence. “But… brilliant. So my branch are all grieving Benedict fucking Cumberbatch, and  _you’re_  upset at his now-fiancée and  _I_  feel like something of a blur because you’re upset about somebody you don’t even know getting engaged.”

“It’s just… he’s… it’s wrong.”

Q looked skyward with a vague whimper of disbelief. This was the world’s punishment for something he’d done, at some stage. He must have pissed somebody off, somewhere, somehow. The universe.

“It’s wrong,” Q repeated blandly.

Bond sighed sadly. “Wrong. But they’re happy, I suppose, so I…”

“ _BOND WE ARE DATING STOP MOPING AFTER OTHER WOMEN_.”

“But…”

“ _No_ ,” Q repeated, emphatically. “I need to mop up Q-branch as it is, I won’t deal with you as well. Idiot. Get a grip on yourself.”

“… okay,” Bond replied. “I didn’t mean to upset you…”

“You’re insane, you’re all insane,” Q mumbled.

(in front of him, R had discreetly found a box of tissues and was valiantly feigning a cold).

“I still love you,” Bond pointed out.

Q rolled his eyes. “Good,” he replied wearily. “I’ll be home at six. Try to… I don’t know, just don’t be miserable when I get in?”

“I won’t. Promise.”

Q smirked, and hung up, turning instead to his bizarre and ridiculous branch of minions, prepared for what he already knew would be a very weird day.


	129. Chapter 129

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new permutation of Bondlock! Q is Molly’s brother and he has to officially ‘die’ when MI6 explodes and he becomes quartermaster. Molly is very upset and Sherlock decides to investigate… Thank you muchly! :-) – anon

“John. Get your coat.”

John looked up, sighing slightly; Sherlock had no concept of manners, his tone unnecessarily brusque as he slithered into his own coat. “Why?” he asked, a little wearily. “New case?”

Sherlock was halfway out the door. John swore under his breath, and followed, as quickly as he could; he stepped out the door to find Sherlock flagging down a cab. Sherlock somehow always seemed able to get a cab. It was frankly ridiculous.

“Molly.”

“What about her?”

“Her brother died,” Sherlock told John simply. “There are irregularities, however. You recall the MI6 explosion?”

It had been shocking, rocking the whole of London. Not to mention that Mycroft had been in the building at the time; it was perhaps the first time Sherlock had ever been visibly panicked about another human being. “… yes?”

“I examined the post-mortems, and Molly’s brother is not present. The Quartermaster of MI6 died in the same explosion – and yet, there is still a Q. There is a replacement. MI6 does not externally recruit for the Quartermaster position. The bodies do not correlate. The brother is missing. I am inclined to believe that the opportunity was taken to replace Q in the easiest way possible.”

John took a moment to get his head around it. It actually made sense. “So…”

“So we’re going to MI6 to find out.”

John opened his mouth, closed it again, and just decided to go with it.

-

“Q.”

Q – a skinny, dark-haired man who looked shockingly young to have quite so much power – glanced up. He took a moment to assess both John and Sherlock, the latter visibly smirking with satisfaction.

“Bollocks,” Q muttered. “Well. I can’t say I’m all that surprised. As a point of reference, you should not have access to the mainframe post-mortems, but I’m assuming Mycroft allowed you access?”

Sherlock smiled smugly. “MI6, the safest place in the country, was attacked. I was curious, more so when Molly told me you had died in the explosion.”

Q sighed. “Excellent. You’ll tell her?”

“You will.”

Sherlock’s tone brooked no refusal. Q stared at him for a long moment. John, meanwhile, was more distracted with looking around Q-branch, and wondering distantly whether they would be put in prison for a very long time for this particular venture. Sherlock had bluffed his way in. Q looked rather unimpressed.

“I am officially dead.”

“I don’t care.”

Sherlock’s grin was all teeth, and John remembered – hell had no fury like Sherlock, when somebody he cared about was hurt. All of his pride put aside, he cared a great deal about Molly Hooper.

Q didn’t stand a chance.


	130. Chapter 130

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello ladies! I love and miss your Bonlock. John ask Q and Myc to teach Hamish how to cope with Sherlock’s death. I just want a little of uncle comfort. Thanks for writing. – anon

Hamish had entirely stopped speaking.

He was the living mirror of his deceased father. Sherlock had opted for mutism for nearly three months after their mother had died; it had taken a great deal of intervention from his siblings to coax him into speaking again.

“It doesn’t get better.”

Hamish looked up. Mycroft looked straight back.

“Helpful, Myc,” Q muttered, walking into the living room of 221B with two mugs. Mycroft accepted a tar-like coffee from Q, while Q somewhat gingerly sat in Sherlock’s old chair.

Hamish shot him daggers. Q calmly ignored him.

“I made the mistake with Sherlock of lying,” Mycroft returned to Q, swilling his mug thoughtfully. “I felt it better to be entirely honest: it does not get better. It gets easier, a little, but you will always be in pain.”

Q sighed. “Mycroft, you should  _never_ be allowed to comfort anybody,” he informed his eldest brother. “Hamish, silence isn’t going to help. It won’t bring him back.”

Naturally, Hamish just stared at them with bored annoyance.

Q felt a tug of indescribable pain. Hamish looked  _so much_  like Sherlock, the same slant of the mouth and spark in the back of his eyes.

“I’d suggest not forcing therapy,” Mycroft continued – good  _god_  the man was useless – and Hamish raised an eyebrow. “I will, if things reach that point. John is worried about you, and remember that he’s grieving too. Both of you need to behave like adults.”

John poked his head around the door. There was a rim of red around his eyes, but he was mostly succeeding in looking put-together. “Hamish? You need lunch. What would you like?”

Hamish shrugged. Q shot him a slightly beseeching look that was predictably ignored. John lingered for a moment, looking over his son, before moving away into the kitchen. Mycroft tsked slightly. Hamish looked just a little bit guilty.

“It takes time,” Q murmured sadly. “I’m sorry, Hamish. I wish it could be easier. Sherlock… he…”

“He jumped.”

The words whipped out. “Do not ask questions that will never have satisfactory answers,” Mycroft advised, understanding Hamish immediately. “Sherlock had reasons, that much cannot be doubted. We will almost certainly never know, and it will not change the fact of his demise. You must attempt to accept the loss.”

“I don’t want to.”

 _At least,_  Q thought,  _he’s speaking._

“John?” Mycroft called, “would you come here for a moment?”

John duly appeared, his body carrying the weariness of one accustomed to weather any given storms. “All alright in here?”

“Hamish has something to say to you.”

Mycroft did not move his gaze from Hamish, the boy staring back defiantly for a very long while, John and Q caught in the middle of an apparent standoff.

With a grimace, Hamish looked up at his father. His gaze immediately softened, body curving inwards, gaze falling to the floor. “I’m sorry,” he said, almost inaudibly.

John instantly scooped him into a tight hug.

Hamish managed seven seconds before starting to cry.

Over the top of his child’s head, John caught the Holmes boys’ eyes.  _Thank you_ , he mouthed, before kissing the top of Hamish’s head, holding him so tightly, never letting the boy slip away again.


	131. Chapter 131

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know you have a mountain of prompts, but here is another to add to the pile if it interests you! I’d love to see an actual Bond/Sherlock prompt. Everyone assumes that these two would try to kill one another if left in a room long enough. But what if all that tension was sexual tension? Everyone would be completely surprised how attracted these two walking time bombs are to each other. – anon

Sherlock Holmes was the greatest arsehole James Bond had ever known. In every sense. The man currently stood pressed between Bond’s body and a wall, moaning as Bond fucked the living daylights out of him. It was the only time he would ever shut the fuck up.

James Bond was a stupid, womanising alcoholic. But that didn’t really matter at this point.

It only mattered when a government official walked in on them.

“Good god,” Mycroft drawled, “you two have a distinctly bad sense of time and place.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and Bond ignored Mycroft entirely, more concerned with stuttering his hips against Sherlock’s while Sherlock himself let out an understated and almost  _sarcastic_  moan as he, too, came.

Mycroft was still standing in the doorway, eyes averted. “Voyeur,” Sherlock accused without vitriol, cleaning himself up languidly. Bond tucked himself away without comment and turned to face his superior officer.

“This is Q’s office.”

“Yes, it is, and why is there a goddamn  _party_ happening in…”

Q cut off, letting out an open growl of frustration. “Again? Sherlock, we’ve talked about this, and Bond, you’re in deep shit.”

“Apologies, Quartermaster.”

Q raised an eyebrow. “I am going to make your life a living hell,” he assured the agent, in a beguilingly friendly tone. “Now, both of you,  _get the fuck out_. And what do  _you_  want, Mycroft?”

“As divine providence would have it,” Mycroft said lightly, finally daring to look at his younger brother. “I need all three of you.”

Sherlock grimaced. “I’m too busy for whatever you’re asking,” he announced, and attempted to stride for the door.

Mycroft barred the exit with his umbrella. Sherlock snarled, rounding on both of his siblings with a hiss of fury. “Let me out.”

“You were the one who entered in the first place,” Q sniped, and ushered all three in, closing the door and pressing a few quick keys on the doorpad; the place sealed with a collection of sharp thumps. “I’m fucking  _livid_ , by the way. This is my  _office_.”

“Then stop leaving it unguarded,” Sherlock returned snippily, while Bond smirked. The bastard was always smirking.

“Why is this happening to me?” Q asked nobody in particular, sliding gingerly into his office chair. “Mycroft. Talk.”

“You two,” Mycroft began, addressing Bond and Sherlock, “have been observed as having a relationship…”

“Yes, because they’re usually so fucking subtle.”

“Q, quiet,” Mycroft ordered. Q sulked. “Both of you…”

“It’s hardly a relationship,” Bond pointed out. “More a mutually convenient…”

Sherlock’s expression caused him to tail off.

There was an immensely uncomfortable silence.

“Well,” Mycroft continued quietly, “this is…”

“Keep talking,” Sherlock snapped, still staring at a very,  _very_  cowed James Bond.

Never, Q mused, had a mission brief turned into such an extraordinary spectator sport.


	132. Chapter 132

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’ve read a lot of bondlock (not Q is a Holmes) where Sherlock and John work for MI6, but I don’t think I’ve ever read one where James and Q consult for the Met. Could you write something like that? Please and thank you, you lovely people – isthisrubble

It was something of an impromptu arrangement, partly because all concerned would lose jobs or wind up in prison if anybody knew what they were doing, and that was considered to be a fairly bad thing.

Q and Bond were consultant hackers. Not technically hackers, but it rolled off the tongue better than ‘consultant computer specialists/technicians’ so they went for the simplest common denomination and ran with it.

“Anything?”

Greg Lestrade sat opposite with an ignored cup of tea, waiting for Q to get somewhere. Q held up a finger, silencing him, before his hand moved to his earpiece and tapped once. “Bond, status?”

“In place and ready.”

The other, less auspicious part of their business that Lestrade didn’t technically know about but always didn’t  _not_  know about, was that Bond worked once in a while as a sniper or even ad hoc anaesthetist. Q could not run for shit, and acquiring their subjects once in a while was assisted by a dart to the shoulder, an interrogation or two.

Lestrade knew that Q had access to a considerable amount more files than he ought to have. He also knew Q could comb through the entirety of the CCTV in London (or so it seemed) in a matter of hours and spot all discrepancies. He knew that Bond was an ex-secret agent who was deployed to do Q’s legwork when the younger man was occupied on his computer.

“Streaming now,” Bond reported.

Q’s grin spread. “Alright, we have something,” he told Lestrade, who immediately perked up. “Have a look at this…”

Lestrade watched the live stream coming from Bond’s lapel, as he spoke in smooth inaudible terms to a particularly austere-looking man. Said man was palpably suspicious, but allowed the conversation to tick along, saying things that Q could presumably hear. “Your mark. Bond is arranging a drop you’ll be able to intercept. I’d appreciate you finding a way to  _not_  arrest Bond during said drop, it would be a waste of time and energy to break him out again.”

The tea finally received some attention. It gave Greg’s hands something to do while he contemplated – once again – just how much power Q and Bond shouldn’t have had. “Alright,” he conceded. “Where and how? How does he know Bond’s…”

“I’m going to plead plausible deniability,” Q interrupted. It was something of a routine: Lestrade asked anything that could prove difficult or unpleasant (or very illegal) to explain, and Q immediately cited plausible deniability to get out of it.

Lestrade’s morals kept being prodded closer to breakpoint, but on the other hand, he got a  _lot_  of good things from the pair and couldn’t really afford to lose their leads.

“Tuesday, 2AM, location to be confirmed but somewhere in Woolwich if their previous MO is anything to go by,” Q smirked. “How does that sound, Detective Inspector?”

“No need to be smug,” Lestrade griped. “Just give me the location when you have it. Thanks for the tea.”

Q didn’t look up. “No problem.”

Lestrade took his cue, and left, before he saw anything else that stretched his already fraying morality any further.


	133. Chapter 133

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Moriarty is Q’s ex-boyfriend and tries to fuck things up when he finds out Q is in a new relationship with Bond. – teyriantimelord10 I’m sorry, it was very rude of me to drop that prompt without a please/thank you! I apologize for my atrocious lack of manners…

_Your card has been declined_.

“Okay, this is just getting ridiculous,” Bond snapped, as his last card was discharged from the cash machine with a malevolent whirring. “Q…”  
“I have a horrible suspicion,” Q admitted. “I’m hoping hard it’s not…”

“It’s not Mycroft again?”

Q snorted. “He wouldn’t do the same trick twice, he’d consider it beneath him. No, this is new, and I only know one other person with access to this type of technology and with this type of sense of humour and if I’m not wrong, he’s going to be waiting over in that coffee shop”.

As he spoke, Q turned slowly.

Sure enough, Jim was sat in the window, waving.

“I’m going to kill him,” Q announced, and walked into the road with Bond utterly confused and more than a little bit alarmed.

Q avoided being run over by an out-of-place Range Rover (in the middle of London, I ask you) and slid into the shop, a little tinkle of a bell greeting him. “Jim, you  _arse_ , why are you…”

A second little tinkle admitted Bond. “Q…”

Jim gave him a once over, and snorted. “A washed-up alcoholic with  _way_  too much of a past and I know you like your men ‘complicated’, honey, but this isn’t even an  _exciting_  kind of complicated. Therapy and tea, you’ll end up retired with him dead on a mission he shouldn’t have ever done but forced his way onto and you’ll just be where you were before. Which means you should go back to somebody  _actually complicated and exciting_.”

Bond knew he had been royally insulted, but didn’t know quite how to respond to it before Q had gone off on one: “If you wanted me to date more worthwhile people you  _shouldn’t have dumped me in the first place_. It’s  _your_  fault. So now I’ve moved on you’re now allowed to have character judgements on my partners. Fuck off. And stop playing silly buggers with cash machines, it’s really annoying and I will retaliate if you force my hand.”

“You don’t know  _all_  my aliases.”  
“Yes, I do,” Q replied wearily. “Now Jim, meet James, by the way. As you may have ascertained, Jim is the ex from hell.”

Jim’s grin was all teeth. “Far deeper down than hell, sweetie.”

Bond extended a hand. Jim looked like he was contemplating biting it off there and then.

Bond retracted his hand.

“I don’t like him,” Jim told Q frankly.

“I’m not fond of him either,” Bond pointed out drily. Jim’s spine rippled with anger. Q tried very hard not to smirk. In a weird way, they were both as bad as each other.

“I don’t like you either, Jim. Leave me and my relationship well enough alone.”

Jim grimaced, grinned. “Nah. I’ll just meddle. You know how much I  _love_  to meddle.”

“I’ll make your life a living hell,” Q promised. “Leave off.”

“Bring it on.”

Q rolled his eyes. “James, we’re leaving.  _Goodbye_ , Jim.”

They were almost out the door before Jim whispered a menacing ‘ _for now’._


	134. Chapter 134

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OMG OMG so what if Q’s trick to get Sherlock back home worked so well that even Sebastian Moran thought Jim was back and tracked the signal? And found Q? – anon

The gun at the nape of his neck was not a particular surprise.

“Hello, Colonel,” Q greeted lightly.

Simple, really. The signal had to have a source, and Jim would have left Moran with enough to trace him by. He’d supplied Moran with enough to slip under the radar for two years, never quite touched by MI6 although they had tried valiantly hard.

Moriarty’s right-hand man.

“Where is he?”

“May I turn around? I dislike conversations where I’m the wrong way around. I have no intention of alerting anybody, and even if I did, I imagine most of them are dead by now. So let us conduct this civilly?”

Moran’s gun retracted, and Q slid around in his comfy desk chair. “Better. Now, Colonel…”

“Sebastian.”

Q raised an eyebrow. “First name terms already? I’m honoured.”

“If Jim trusted you enough to loop the feedback of his return into the UK, you’re not a threat. You’re an ally. And you work for MI6 which make things even better in my book. You’re an excellent Quartermaster.”

Q dipped his head in thinks. “And you’re the most competent marksman in the Western world, and Jim trusts you with his life – which means you are in possession of skills I barely wish to contemplate.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t actually know,” Q replied, with all honesty. “I was just told to release thirty seconds after Sherlock’s plane left, and I did.”

“You’ve not seen him in person? Since…?”

Q’s eyes were slightly clouded. “I haven’t, no. I know he’s alive through rumour and occasional CCTV when he’s been sloppy, but he didn’t bother to get in touch until about a week and a half ago. He sends his regards.”

“Like fuck he does,” Moran spat, and heaved out a rather irritated sigh. “Fuck this, I need a drink.”

Q turned to another side table, and pushed over a bottle of scotch he kept for the purpose. “I have some vodka around too, if you’d prefer,” he offered nonjudgmentally. “We still have a while before MI6 will notice there’s a problem, and I’ll obviously get you out of the building before there are too many issues. We await further instruction, I think.”

Moran knocked back two measures without blinking. Q drank the vodka neat, out the bottle, in a way that would make any Russian proud.

“Oh my pretty darlings,” a voice lilted, a songlike tone. “My lovely boys, faithful boys…”

Q coughed slightly on his second slug of vodka, and Moran crushed – literally crushed – the glass in his hand. “Jim, you’re a bastard,” Q told him, looking over Moran’s head as he too turned.

Jim, in the doorway, jacket over his shoulder and leaning there as though Vanity Fair were shooting him there and then. “Did you miss me?” he asked, one last time, and sauntered in, shutting the door behind him.


	135. Chapter 135

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> love reading your works :) Bondlock is my fav fandom! I like the rare pairing Sherlock/Q (as in incest where Q is a Holmes!). Would you please write a story about them? I have two ideas in mind, I would be delighted if you can combine them, the first is they being very happily in love because they dont care about social conventions, anyway; the second idea is crazier, mpreg, Q is pregnant but it is highly possible that their child will be a mentally retarded, do the two geniuses keep it or not? – anon

The only problem was that neither of them really adhered to normal conventions about nutrition, which was a problem John and Eve were perpetually trying to remedy whenever they were around their respective friends.

Sherlock and Q were actually perfectly happy as they were. Social conventions were redundant, antique things. The pair of them had fallen into an easy, reciprocal, loving relationship that worked perfectly and neither had any intentions of letting it fall apart.

There were hiccups. Every relationship has hiccups.

Sherlock anticipated one from the outset, when Q set down a mug of coffee and a collection of biscuits on a plate and settled opposite Sherlock with a complicated expression. “We have a problem, I think. Possibly.”

“A large one, judging by the number of biscuits and pedantry in your coffee making,” Sherlock returned, with something of a drawl. Sherlock always drawled a bit when nervous, as though speaking slowly could delay the inevitable. “And?”

“I’m pregnant.”

There was a moment of spectacular silence. “… ah.”

“Indeed.”

A little more silence. Sherlock drank half the mug in a single swallow, ignoring the scalding heat of it. “What would you…”

“No, you first,” Q insisted. “I don’t know, I have a lot of thoughts.”

Neither needed to voice the obvious: it was very risky to carry a child of an incestuous relationship. There was a great potential for illness and learning disabilities, lowered life expectancy, even. It was a case of balancing probability and want, seeing where they landed.

“I don’t want a child in the first place,” Q pointed out, hands over his stomach as though it would instantly swell without warning. “Sherlock, I don’t… I don’t think I can do this.”

“The procedure…”

“… is risky for men, but high enough success rate… I mean, I may be laid out for a couple of weeks but it’s better than… I mean fuck, Sherlock, we’re not equipped for a child and I don’t… it never really occurred to me that we’d  _want_ …”

Sherlock was very quiet. “I had harboured the notion,” he admitted quietly.

Q let out a strange puff of breath. “Fuck.”

“It is your body, Q, I would never impose that upon you, and the genetic…”

“It’s a risk, and it’s the wrong time, and I don’t think I can do this,” Q was still saying, words tumbling out of his mouth with nothing short of panic, apology, as Sherlock remained a marble monument as he processed and thought, visibly digesting and calculating a response. “Sherlock?”

“I don’t want to risk your health,” Sherlock said slowly, “and male abortions are a substantial risk. However, I also do not want to risk the ill health of the foetus – child – and certainly do not want to have a child at this point if it is not something you want.”

Q’s breath remained very erratic. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, almost exhausted. “I’m… Sherlock, I’m sorry.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, moved to kneel in front of Q’s chair, and all but pulled the younger man out and into his arms. “It will be alright,” Sherlock told him, voice steady and calm, anchoring Q, anchoring both of them, safe.


	136. Chapter 136

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could you do a prompt Sherlock/Q prompt? Where they meet for the first time (sherlock is consulting with MI6) and it’s love at first sight for Sherlock and since he’s emotionally constipated, to show his attraction for Q he acts very weird ( like he blurts out things about Q and saying he likes those too or we could work on them together,etc.) Everyone is like “what?” And John is like “oh, no…” because he knows exactly what’s going on. – anon

Sherlock had never been so utterly and ridiculously inept at anything in his life – but it had to be said, it was incredibly endearing (alright, and a little alarming) to see him fail utterly to seduce somebody.

“…  and the stress lines are visible, your  _hair_ , I mean it’s good – I mean – you look good but the stress on your hair…”

John cleared his throat emphatically, and Sherlock mercifully stopped speaking.

Q looked fairly unconcerned, barring the smallest of smiles that betrayed that  _perhaps_  he understood why Sherlock was currently failing at any social interaction at all. Usually, he could at least pass for a competent arsehole. Now, he was an emotionally and verbally stunted arsehole, with a propensity for word vomiting.

John knew, of course. There were very few things in the world that could reduce Sherlock quite so much, but an abrupt and unexpected attraction to somebody would be right up there as one of them.

“Sherlock?”

Greg had gone for the ‘alarmed’ option; he looked between Q and Sherlock, and opened his mouth with apparently distinct threat of actually asking a question for clarity. “Don’t,” John muttered, and pulled him back a step or too. “He’s fine. Deducing. Not his best day, but…”

“… and you have elegant fingers, pianist, not like mine with string indents, you know after so many years the indents have destroyed any chance of being fingerprinted on my left hand, you’ll just sink everything into the grooves…”

John cleared his throat, a little more loudly.

“Oh no, don’t worry, he’s just getting onto some excellent fallacies of the security services,” Q interrupted, his amusement now palpable. “If you could leave us for a moment?”

Q waited until they were all out of earshot before asking, very plainly: “You’re attracted to me.”

Sherlock tried very, very hard to find a decent response beyond  _yep completely love at first sight you’re brilliant and_  which wasn’t very helpful, and so settled for: “I believe so.”

“You believe so?”

Sherlock blushed, actually  _blushed_. “I know. I know I do.”

“Good,” Q smiled. “Pick me up at eight from the main entrance hall, and we can get some dinner. Know anywhere good?”

“Angelo’s,” Sherlock said on autopilot. “Owner owes me, it’s good food and especially for me and a… date?”

“Date.”

Sherlock was still a curious shade of pink. Q was kind enough to ignore it. “I look forward to it,” Q smiled. “Now go on, we’ve both got work to do.”

John took one look at Sherlock, and couldn’t stop snorting. “You’re completely shit at that, you realise?”

“Got a date,” Sherlock retorted stiffly. “That’s what matters, doesn’t it?”

“You managed to get a  _date_?”

“No need to be  _quite_  so shocked, it does happen.”

“Not to you.”

“John, do shut up, your attempts to bait me are obvious and boring.”

John just snorted, and followed a somewhat aggrieved-looking Sherlock out.

**_Could you do a prompt Sherlock/Q prompt? Where they meet for the first time (sherlock is consulting with MI6) and it’s love at first sight for Sherlock and since he’s emotionally constipated, to show his attraction for Q he acts very weird ( like he blurts out things about Q and saying he likes those too or we could work on them together,etc.) Everyone is like “what?” And John is like “oh, no…” because he knows exactly what’s going on. – anon_ **


	137. Chapter 137

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love, love, love your writing! Can you write me Bondlock prompt where John and Sherlock are together, but John thinks Sherlock is having an affair. However, in actuality Sherlock is dealing with his younger brother, Q, who is planning to elope with his secret agent lover and is doing everything in his power to stop it from happening!!! – anon

Sherlock stumbled into the flat, waved at John, and all but collapsed there and then from visible exhaustion.

“Okay, this has to stop”.

“It’s a  _case_ , John”.

“I followed you.”

Sherlock looked up sharply, mouth narrowing to a thin line. “And what did you see?”

John held his ground. “You. Talking to two men, one of whom you were… well to be honest, you don’t hug anybody except me. You don’t  _do_  physical contact.”

“Why were you following me?”

“I follow you a lot on cases, in case you do something stupid,” John shrugged. “You do the same, I’ve seen you.”

Sherlock looked rather shocked. “You…” he managed, and trailed off. “How do you know I follow you?!”

“The Homeless Network aren’t exclusively yours. And you’re not always subtle, Sherlock, you stalk me while still in that ridiculous coat, can spot you a mile off.”

“But you follow  _me_  and I’ve never…”

“Again: you’re not always subtle. I blend in. Nothing interesting about me, really. So back on the subject at hand: who were you talking to, and why were you hugging them, and should I be worried?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Are you insinuating that I have been in some way unfaithful to you?”

“I’m just… checking,” John completed, a little awkwardly.

The two stared at one another for a seemingly excruciating couple of minutes.

Sherlock eventually took pity. “That was my brother, and his longterm partner. I am assisting in their elopement, without Mycroft knowing.”

“Your brother?”

“Yes, my brother,” Sherlock repeated, irritated. “Am I being somehow  _unclear_ , or are you still determined that I must be cheating on you because I met with some other people and  _hugged_  them?”

“I repeat: you don’t hug. It’s your form of intimacy. You told me as much.”

Sherlock sniffed slightly. John was actually telling the truth; Sherlock had no liking for hugs or physical contact, thus only bestowed said touch on those he truly liked or trusted. “Fine.”

“And your brother is Mycroft.”

Sherlock once again looked at John as though he was being particularly stupid. “Yes. My brother, Q. Quartermaster of MI6.”

“You have another brother?!”

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed, with a small shrug. “Problem?”

John shook his head weakly. “Not at all,” he managed. “None. Nope.”

Quietly, his brain was screaming:  _oh shit, there’s a third one_. It didn’t seem like a comment Sherlock would appreciate, and so he stayed cautiously silent. “Well. That’s…”

“Stop talking, John, this conversation has been a car crash from the outset,” Sherlock sighed, and spun his way elaborately onto the sofa. “Tea, if you would.”

The bastard had a nerve, John huffed, as he went to put the kettle on.


	138. Chapter 138

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, could you write some Bond!lock in which Q is Moriarty’s younger brother who used to help him when he was younger but after a big argument joined MI6. He gets to know Mycroft through work and assists Sherlock in some cases so helps them try and stop Jim without letting on that he is his brother. As such, both he and Jim blame him for the events that led to his ‘suicide’. Fast forward 3 years and Q is enjoying an evening off with Bond when 'Did you miss me?’ starts playing on the TV… – anon

“Oh fuck,” Q breathed,

_Did you miss me? Did you miss me?_

Bond’s mouth had set in a thin line. “Is that who I think it is?” he asked, hand already moving to his pocket, ready to connect through to MI6 and take action.

“Yes.”

_Did you miss me? Did you miss me?_

Q’s phone rang first. “Yes?” he asked curtly. “No, Mycroft, I haven’t the slightest idea… it’s universal?!”

Bond’s phone rang. “Bond speaking,” he barked, before rolling his eyes and looking to Q. “It’s Sherlock, he wants to know what’s going on.”

“Jim’s  _dead_.”

Q couldn’t breathe properly. Jim was alive. Either alive, or playing the cruellest trick he had managed while alive or indeed dead. Jim, whom Q had mourned for, whom Q had watched buried and  _wept_ , knowing it was his fault. Jim’s suicide had been Q’s fault, and it had been a long few years trying to make his peace with it.

And now, the  _bastard_  was back, and Mycroft Holmes sounded somehow brittle over the phone. Understandable, given that Sherlock had very nearly died last time Jim was around, but difficult to manage.

Q had other concerns.

“I’ll call you back,” Q told Mycroft, and grabbed the phone off Bond while hanging up. “Yes, Sherlock, I know. I’ll call you back when I know what’s going on.”

Bond accepted the phone as it was tossed back, and Q started typing in a phone number he hadn’t needed to use in three years, but remembered by heart.

Jim had a million aliases, and a million phone numbers, but only one number that was truly personal. A number known to maybe one another in the world, to a phone that had never been tracked down despite Q  _knowing_  Jim always had the phone on him.

Q hadn’t phoned that number in uncountable years, but had always known it was there. Jim was always only a phone call away, if he ever chose. If Jim was alive, he would have the phone. Q was certain of it.

(not quite certain, no, but close enough that it had to be worth a try)

“ _Hi darlin’. D’you miss me_?”

Q couldn’t believe it had worked. Jim’s voice, the impossibility of Jim’s voice, the Irish that had never been trained out of his voice and lilted occasionally, and he was  _alive_. “You bastard,” Q choked. “You… _years_ , and you’ve… fucking  _hell_.”  
“ _Come on, you didn’t really believe I’d do something that pointless_?”

“I hate you.”

“ _I love you too, little brother_.”

Bond was staring at him. Q couldn’t bring himself to care: his brother was alive, impossibly alive, and staring at him through a TV screen while purring at him from a phone that had lain dormant for years.

“ _I always said, call me anytime. Not my fault you didn’t believe me_.”

Judging by Bond’s expression, Q had a lot of explaining to do. “Stop the broadcasting. It’s freaking everybody”.

“ _That’s rather the point, honey. See you soon. I don’t forget the people who kill me_.”

“I didn’t…”

“ _Ta ta for now_.”

The phone went silent.

Q sat, eerily still.

_Did you miss me? Did you miss me?_

The screen went black, leaving just the echoes of Jim’s voice, again and again, again and again and again.


	139. Chapter 139

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I’m the anon who requested the sick kid Q you posted about 2 months ago and I absolutely love it you are amazing!!! If your still taking prompts I have another one for you; Sherlock needs Q to help him on a case and Q is deaf and when he comes down to the yard Donovan and Anderson think it’s Sherlock being ridiculous in disguise and are mean to him and Sherlock comes in and is a BAMF big bro!!!!! Your stuff makes me smile every day and feel free to ignore me, *throws flowers, runs away* - anon

Q clucked his tongue, looking over the Met police computer systems; they were antiquated, annoyingly so, and it would take a fair amount of time to unravel everything stored in the system and find the information required.

Every once in a while, he forgot that other people didn’t actually know he was deaf. Q was accustomed to a life in silence; he just got on with things, with all the Met Police congregated behind him.

“… why is the freak pretending to…”

Q was merrily oblivious. He had work to do.

“… oi,  _freak_. Pay attention.”

“Excuse me?”

Sherlock appeared in the doorway at precisely the worst moment for Anderson and Donovan. If he had been just a minute or two later, perhaps he would have missed the real bitching – as it happened, he’d been listening for a while, and simply chose the right moment to make an entrance.

Q only turned around because the light patterns were changing, people walking around. By the time he turned, Sherlock appeared to be shouting at the two police officers who’d been hovering around in the most annoying of possible fashions for the past hour or so.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock turned to look, and his expression was livid. His hands moved in jerky convulsions as he signed:  _they were being rude to you_.

Q wearily signed back:  _please don’t get arrested on my account_

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Donovan and Anderson looked vaguely lost. Lestrade appeared, looking between the assembled parties, and Q waved at him in greeting; they’d met before, a couple of times, and Q was rather fond of him. He even knew some sign language.

_Nobody will ever hurt you._

Admirable sentiment, Q had to admit, and Sherlock had always been the overprotective type; he smiled slightly, and let Sherlock go for it, turning back to the screen. Lestrade would intervene if things went too far, and would prevent either of the obnoxious pair from being killed.

Q loved his brother.

After a little while, Sherlock tapped him on the shoulder; Q swivelled around, saw that the police officers looked extremely chastened and Lestrade somewhat knackered. Sherlock smiled, and signed: _They’ll be apologising to you now. I’m still considering killing them both, but I think it would be messy and Lestrade will ban me from crime scenes._

Q smirked:  _For the record, I’d be more than happy to erase your entire criminal record if required. If you ever go too far_.

Sherlock:  _I’ll bear that in mind. One moment._

Sherlock turned to the two police officers, spoke quickly, a little too quickly for Q to adequately lip-read. After which, he very carefully taught the two police officers to say “I am an ignorant moron” in sign language.

They turned to Q, still looking very chastened, and signed  _I am an ignorant moron_  in more or less unison.

Q grinned. Sherlock had the same smile he had when they were far younger, when they’d first started using sign language as a secret thing for each other, something they could use to privately mock and humiliate while everybody around did the same.

Morality was something of a grey area, but Q figured that apologies would often benefit from admitting one’s stupidity. Maybe one day somebody else would correct them. Until that day, Q was happy to have two police officers inadvertently admitting to stupidity.

 _I love you, Sherlock_ , Q signed.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow:  _Quite right too. Feel free to keep working_.

 _Speak soon_ , Q smiled, and twisted back to the screen, comfortably knowing his brother had his back.


	140. Chapter 140

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! How about Q Branch receives a video where Q is being tortured by Moriarty? With James there to witness it and throwing a fuss in M’s office until Mycroft shows up. How the two of them deal with poor’s Q misfortune is up to you! Thank you! – anon

“Wakey wakey MI6!”

It wasn’t a very promising opening gambit.

Bond had been in Q-branch at the time, simply because Q had dropped off-radar and nobody knew what had happened. Bond was there to bully the minions. He was doing a remarkably good job of it; the minions were in a state of mass hysteria, and that was  _before_  the video came through.

Q-branch watched Bond go from stressed to absolutely, lethally livid.

Q himself was strung up to the ceiling in the middle of a living room, plush carpet and sofa included. Moriarty was dancing around Q’s body with a sharp black whip, cracking it against him intermittently with a hum of satisfaction while Q jerked, hissed, eventually screamed. He didn’t beg, a fact which caused a bloom of pride to blossom in Bond’s stomach.

Moriarty didn’t ask anything, didn’t actually want anything. He was just bored, a fact which he announced to camera with bared teeth in an animal grin.

Bond was in M’s office almost instantly. “We need to take action,  _now_.”

M looked very tired and very stressed. “Yes, Bond. We’ve established that much. I am currently waiting for clearance.”

“ _You are clearance_.”

“Not in this instance,” M told him. “This goes above my head, because I get the distinct impression this is going to be dealt with privately.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “Privately?”

“Good afternoon, both.”  
Bond spun around. “Mycroft. I’m assuming this is in your remit, then?”

“I’m making it so,” Mycroft replied; unlike M, he was betraying absolutely nothing of his inevitable stress. Bond knew full well Mycroft was bound to be a mess, regardless of exterior. If he wasn’t, he would not be deploying his own private team to handle things. “Bond, I am going to be employing you, M?”

“Go,” he waved. “Go, get our Quartermaster back. Bond, your license to kill only stretches to actual threats, please don’t get me into reams of paperwork because I will not be kind.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “That is your advice when it comes to Q’s abduction?”

M looked straight back at him, utterly level. “You forget, double-oh seven, that Q is not the only priority figure in MI6. I have a number of other concerns, that are not known to you, so get out of my office and return with our Quartermaster before I am forced to instate somebody new.”

Bond couldn’t quite bring himself to be angry. Mycroft was utterly implacable. “Thank you, M,” Mycroft nodded, looking over to Bond. “Get yourself outfitted, R has your equipment ready and waiting. I believe Q has left a number of things for you for this sort of circumstance.”

Bond couldn’t dislodge the sounds of Q’s screams.

“Oh, and one more thing.”

Mycroft was wearing a worrying, thin smile. Bond moved his head incrementally. “Yes?”

“You absolutely must take James Moriarty alive.”

“I make no promises.”

Mycroft lifted his umbrella, pointing it directly at Bond’s heart. “Then you will be barred from this mission. We need him alive.”

Bond straightened slightly, and prepared to lie. “In which case, fine.”

Mycroft just rolled his eyes. “Sometimes,” he said wearily, “your acting is truly abysmal. Come.”

With that, he stalked out of the office, leaving Bond to follow.


	141. Chapter 141

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How about Q is Jim’s baby brother, and Jim decides to do somethinh very special for Q’s birthday. Like annoucing to the world he is in fact not dead. Bonus point if you can throw some MorMor as well! Thanks a lot! – anon

_Did you miss me_?

“I am going fucking  _murder him_ ,” Q spat at the screen, eyes wide and utterly horrified. “Jim, you absolute  _fuck_.”

Q rifled around in his desk drawer, pulling out a flip-phone, turning it on – it seemed to take a lifetime to finally boot up – and called the only number on it.

For the first time in three years, somebody picked up.

“You  _bastard_.”

“Hello, baby brother.”

“ _You are supposed to be dead_.”

“And I’m not. Aren’t you happy?”

Q let out a small whine. “Yes, Jim, of course I’m happy you’re not dead, but seriously _, what the fuck?!_ You choose now?! You choose  _my birthday_. I’ve had to go into work and deal with the utter carnage unleashed, and the shock quite frankly nearly killed me straight off, and  _I grieved for you_ , you couldn’t have  _told me_  you were still alive?!”

“My my, we  _are_  cross,” Jim noted, with a slight crow of satisfaction. “Come on now, let’s all calm down.”

Q was dangerously quiet for a moment. “Jim, are you alright?” he asked after a moment, with a type of warm fragility. “I’ve been… I missed you, you utter prick.”

Jim let out a peal of laughter. “Missed me? Little brother, of course you missed me.”

“Shit, have you picked up Seb yet?” Q asked quickly; Moran had been remanded in MI6 custody for a while. He and Q had chatted (off camera, out of sight) about losing Jim. Moran had been worse than Q, actually, although he somehow managed to make none of it show while Q had been peeling a little around the edges. “He’s missed you.”

“He’s here. Nearly killed me on reflex,” Jim mused. “Which reminds me why I keep him around.”

Of course, somebody nearly killing him would be reason enough for Jim to keep somebody around. Especially if that somebody could kill him in ways that only Jim’s imagination could exceed. “Want to get a drink?”

“I’m gonna bloody need one,” Q griped back, still staring at his brother’s grin, flashing across a million screens. “But only when I deal with the hell you have just unleashed. I repeat: my  _birthday_? I was supposed to have the day off.”

Jim’s grin was audible. “I’m the best birthday present.”

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Q replied curtly. “I’ll see you at eight.”

“Where?”

“I’ll find you.”

Jim snorted, and Q just waited. After a moment or two, Jim acknowledged that Q was quite serious. “If you think you can, baby brother, by all means.”

“Eight,” Q repeated, and hung up, returning attention to his desk phone, intercom, and secondary mobiles that were all ringing, a terrifying cacophony to try and temper before various people’s blood pressure went over the rails completely.


	142. Chapter 142

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! Here’s a cute idea: AU in which Q and James meet at Sherlock and John’s wedding? Bonus point for wedding sex. Thank you so much! – anon

Bond all but ran into him.

“Sorry about that,” Bond smiled, while the younger man straightened himself up again; Bond glanced him over quickly, and the smile became more defined. “Can’t imagine how I didn’t see you standing there, beautiful thing that you are.”

Q was visibly taken aback for a moment, but recovered himself admirably. “Name’s Q.”

“Bond. James Bond. And Q stands for…?”

“Q,” he replied easily. “Just Q. I’m guessing you’re John’s?”

Bond nodded. “We met in the military,” he explained, still smiling in a way that made Q feel  a little bit weak at the knees. “And you?”

Q’s own shy returning smile was enough to make Bond’s breath hesitate slightly. He was  _beautiful_. “I’m Sherlock’s brother.”

“… you’re not Mycroft?”

“Correct, I’m Q,” Q replied, laughing. “Sorry, not many people know about me, I’m the quiet one.”

“And the most attractive one,” Bond added, and Q turned a delightful shade of pink. “So what do you do?”

Q shrugged. “Computing. Bits and pieces. Lots of things. You?”  
  
“International exports,” Bond replied easily.

To his confusion, Q’s grin went wild. “Oh superb,” Q laughed, “we’re in the same industry. You must be MI6?”  
  
 Bond’s eyebrows furrowed. “What…”

“I’m the MI5 Quartermaster,” Q smiled. “And you’re an agent. Division?”

“Double-oh,” Bond replied, still finding the entire thing difficult to believe. “So Q  _does_  stand for something.”

Q shrugged, clearly finding it very entertaining. “Good, well. It’s nice to find somebody who understands things. Double-oh…?”

“Seven.”

“ _Fantastic_ ,” Q enthused, “I’m talking to  _double-oh seven_.”

“And the MI5 Quartermaster,” Bond repeated to himself. “Wow. Well. This makes everything easier.”

“Oh?”

Bond shot Q his most flirtation grin. “Want to join me for a dance?”

To Bond’s confusion, Q went pale with visible terror. “Can’t. Two left feet. Two and a half left feet, really, I trip over everything and it’s fairly dangerous for me to be within ten yards of music, I’m rhythmically challenged…”

“Then drinks,” Bond amended, and the colour returned to Q’s cheeks. “What’s your poison?”

“Vodka martini. Preferably shaken.”

Bond hid his shock admirably. “I’ll be back in a moment. Don’t move.”

“Couldn’t if I tried,” Q replied, smiling after him as he slipped away, watching the man’s shapely arse without apology.


End file.
